Red Rising

20
The House Mars

There’s stillness in my soul as I look at the broken boy. Even Cassius would not recognize Julian now. A cavity is carved into my heart. My hands tremble as the blood dribbles off them onto cold stone. Rivers along the golden Sigils upon my hands. I am a Helldiver, but the sobs come even as the tears are gone. His blood trickles from my knee down my hairless shin. It’s red. Not golden. My knees feel the stone and my forehead touches it as I sob till exhaustion fills my chest.

When I look up, he is still dead.

This wasn’t right.

I thought the Society only played games with its slaves. Wrong. Julian didn’t score like I did on the tests. He wasn’t as physically capable as me. So he was a sacrificial lamb. One hundred students per House and the bottom fifty are only here to be killed by the top fifty. This is just a bloodydamn test… for me. Even the Bellona Family, powerful as they are, could not protect their less capable son. And that is the point.

I hate myself.

I know they made me do this, yet it still feels like a choice. Like when I pulled Eo’s legs and felt the snap of her small spine. My choice. But what other choice was there with her? With Julian? They do this to make us wear the guilt.

There’s nowhere to wipe the blood, only stone and two naked bodies. This is not who I am, who I want to be. I want to be a father, a husband, a dancer. Let me dig in the earth. Let me sing the songs of my people and leap and spin and run along the walls. I would never sing the forbidden song. I would work. I would bow. Let me wash dirt from my hands instead of blood. I want only to live with my family. We were happy enough.

Freedom costs too much.

But Eo disagreed.

Damn her.

I wait, but no one comes to see the mess I’ve made. The door is unlocked. I slip the golden ring over my finger after I close Julian’s eyes, and walk naked into the cold hall. It is empty. A soft light guides me up never-ending stairs. Water drips from the subterranean tunnel’s ceiling. I use it to try and clean my body, but all I do is lather the blood into my skin, thinning it. I cannot escape it, what I’ve done, no matter how far I follow the tunnel. I am alone with my sin. This is why they rule. The Peerless Scarred know that dark deeds are carried through life. They cannot be outrun. They must be worn if one is to rule. This is their first lesson. Or was it that the weak do not deserve life?

I hate them, but I hear them.

Win. Bear the guilt. Reign.

They want me pitiless. They want my memory short.

But I was raised differently.

All my people sing of are memories. And so I will remember this death. It will burden me as it does not burden my fellow students—I must not let that change. I must not become like them. I’ll remember that every sin, every death, every sacrifice, is for freedom.

Yet now I’m afraid.

Can I bear the next lesson?

Can I pretend to be as cold as Augustus? I now know why he did not flinch in hanging my wife. And I am beginning to understand why Golds rule. They can do what I cannot.

Though I am alone, I know I will soon find others. They want me to soak in the guilt for now. They want me lonely, mournful, so that when I meet the others, the winners, I will be relieved. The murders will bind us, and I’ll find the company of the winners a salve to my guilt. I do not love my fellow students, but I will think I do. I will want their comfort, their reassurances that I am not evil. And they will want the same. This is meant to make us a family—one with cruel secrets.

I am right.

My tunnel leads me to the others. I see Roque, the poet, first. He bleeds from the back of his head. Blood is slick on his right elbow. I didn’t think him capable of killing. Whose blood? His eyes are red from crying. We find Antonia next. Like us, she is naked; she moves like a golden ship, drifting along, quiet and aloof. Her feet leave bloody footprints where she walks.

I dread finding Cassius. I hope he is dead, because I’m afraid of him. He reminds me of Dancer—handsome, laughing, yet a dragon just beneath the surface. But that’s not why I’m afraid. I’m afraid because he has a reason to hate me, to want to kill me. No one in my life has had just cause before. No one has ever hated me. He will if he finds out. Then I realize it. How could the House ever be knit tightly with such secrets? It can’t. Cassius will know someone here killed his brother. Others will have lost friends, and so the House will devour itself. The Society did this on purpose; they want chaos. It will be our second test. Tribal strife.

The three of us find the other survivors in a cavernous stone dining hall dominated by a long wooden table. Torches light the room. Night’s mist slithers through open windows. It is like something from the old tales. The times they call Medieval. Toward the far end of the long room is a plinth. A giant stone towers there; embedded in its center is a golden Primus hand. Golden and black tapestries flank the stone. A wolf howls upon the tapestries, as though calling out a warning. It is the Primus hand that will tear this House apart. Each one of these little princes and princesses will think themselves deserved of the honor of leading the House. Yet only one can.

I move like a ghost with the other students, drifting around the stone halls of what seems to be a giant castle. There is a room in which we are to clean ourselves.

A trough runs icy water along the cold floor. Now blood runs with the water to the right and disappears into the stone. I feel like some sort of specter in a land of fog and rock.

Black and gold fatigues are laid out for us in a relatively barren armory. Each student finds the fatigue bundle tagged with his or her name. A golden symbol of a howling wolf marks the high collars and sleeves of our clothing. I take my clothing with me and dress alone in some storage room. There, I fall into the corner and cry, not because of Julian, but because this place is so cold and quiet. It is so far from home.

Roque finds me. He’s striking in his uniform—lean like a strand of golden summer wheat, with high cheekbones and warm eyes, but his face is pale. He sits on his haunches across from me for several minutes before he reaches over to clasp my hands. I draw back, but he holds on till I look at him.

“If you are thrown into the deep and do not swim, you will drown,” he says, and raises his thin eyebrows. “So keep swimming, right?”

I wipe away my silent tears and force a chuckle.

“A poet’s logic.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t count for much. So I’ll give you facts, brotherman. This is the system. The lower Colors have their children by use of catalysts. Fast births, sometimes only five months of gestation before labor is induced. Except for the Obsidians, only we wait nine months to be born. Our mothers receive no catalysts, no sedatives, no nucleics. Have you asked yourself why?”

“So the product can be pure.”

“And so that nature is given a chance to kill us. The Board of Quality Control is firmly convinced that 13.6213 percent of all Gold children should die before one year of age. Sometimes they make reality fit this number.” He splays out his thin hands. “Why? Because they believe civilization weakens natural selection. They do nature’s work so that we do not become a soft race. The Passage, it seems, is a continuation of that policy. Only we were the tools they used. My… victim… was, bless his soul, a fool. He was from a family of no worth, and he had no wits, no intelligence, no ambition,” he frowns at the words before sighing, “he had nothing the Board values. There is a reason he was to die.”

Was there a reason Julian was to die?

Roque knows what he does because his mother is on the Board. He loathes his mother, and only then do I realize I should like him. Not only that, I take refuge in his words. He disagrees with the rules, but he follows them. It is possible. I can do the same until I have power enough to change them.

“We should join the others.” I say, standing.

In the dining hall, our names float above the chairs in golden letters. Our test scores are gone. Our names have also appeared beneath the Primus hand in the black stone. They float, golden, upward toward the golden hand. I’m closest, though there’s still much distance to cover.

Some of the students cry together in small groups by the long wooden table. Others sit against the wall, heads in their hands. A limping girl looks for her friend. Antonia glares over at the table where small Sevro sits eating. Of course he’s the only one with an appetite. Frankly, I’m surprised he survived. He is tiny and was our ninety-ninth and last draft pick. By Roque’s proposed rules, he should be dead.

Titus, the giant, is alive and bruised. Those knuckles of his look like a dirty butcher’s block. He stands arrogantly apart from the rest, grinning like this is all splendid fun. Roque speaks quietly with the limping girl, Lea. She falls down crying and throws her ring. She looks like a deer, eyes wide and glistening. He sits with her and holds her hand. There’s a peacefulness to him that is unique in the room. Wonder how peaceful he seemed when strangling some other kid to death. I roll my ring on and off my finger.

Someone smacks my head lightly from behind.

“Oy, brotherman.”

“Cassius.” I nod.

“Cheers to your victory. I was worried you were all brains,” Cassius laughs. His golden curls are not even touseled. He throws an arm around me and surveys the room with a wrinkled nose. He feigns this nonchalance; I can tell he’s worried.

“Ah. Is there anything more ugly than self-pity? All this crying.” He smirks and points at a girl with a busted nose. “And she just became aggressively unpleasant. Not that she was ever much to sniff at. Eh? Eh?”

I forget to speak.

“Shell-shocked, man? They get your windpipe?”

“Just not much for joking about right now,” I say. “Took some knocks to the head. Shoulder is a bit slagged too. This isn’t my usual scene.”

“Shoulder can be fixed straight off. Let’s get it back in the socket.” He casually grips my dislocated shoulder and jerks it into its socket before I can protest. I gasp in pain. He chuckles. “Prime. Prime.” He slaps me on the same shoulder. “Help me out, won’t you?”

He extends his left hand. His dislocated fingers look like lightning bolts. I pull them straight. He laughs with the pain, not knowing his brother’s blood is under my fingernails. I’m trying not to hyperventilate.

“Spotted Julian yet, man?” he finally asks. He speaks in midLingo now that Priam is nowhere to be seen.

“Not a sight.”

“Meh, the kid is probably trying to be gentle with his fight. Father taught us the Silent Art, Kravat. Julian is a prodigy at it. He thinks I’m better.” Cassius frowns. “Thinks I’m better at everything—which is understandable. Just got to get him going. Speaking of it, who’d you slag?”

My insides knot.

I make up a lie, and it is a good one. Vague and boring. He only wants to talk about himself now anyway. After all, this is what Cassius was bred for. There are roughly fifteen kids who have that same quiet gleam in their eye. Not evil. Just excited. And those are the ones to watch, because they’re the born killers.

Looking around, it’s easy to see that Roque was right. There weren’t many tough fights. This was forced natural selection. Bottom of the heap getting slaughtered by the top. Hardly anyone is severely injured except a couple of small lowDrafts. Natural selection sometimes has its surprises.

Cassius’s fight was easy, he says. He did it right and fair and quick. Crushed the windpipe with a bladejab ten seconds into squaring up. Caught his fingers oddly, though. Prime. I’ve made a corpse of the best killer’s brother. Dread trickles into me.

Cassius grows quieter when Fitchner saunters in and orders us to the table. One by one, the fifty seats fill. And bit by bit, his face darkens as each chance for Julian to join the table disappears. When the last seat fills, he does not move. It is a cold anger that radiates. Not hot as I thought it would be. Antonia sits across from us, opposite me, and watches him. Her mouth works but she says nothing. You don’t comfort his sort. And I didn’t think her the kind to try.

Julian isn’t the only one missing. Arria, all curls and dimples, is lying limp on a cold floor somewhere. And Priam is gone. Perfect Priam the Premier, heir of Mars’s moons. I heard he was the First Sword in the Solar System for his birthyear. A duelist without peer. I guess he wasn’t too lethal with his fists. I look around the tired faces. Who the hell killed him? The Board messed that one up, and I wager his mother will cause hell, because he certainly wasn’t meant to die.

“We’re wasting the best of us,” Cassius murmurs measuredly.

“Hello, you little shiteaters.” Fitchner yawns and kicks his feet up onto the table. “Now, it might have dawned on you that the Passage may as well be called the Culling.” Fitchner scratches his groin with his razor’s hilt.

His manners are worse than mine.

“And you may think it a waste of good Golds, but you’re an idiot if you think fifty children make a dent in our numbers. There are more than one million Golds on Mars. More than one hundred million in the Solar System. Not all get to be Peerless Scarred, though, eh? Now if you still think this was vile, consider that the Spartans would kill more than ten percent of all children born to them; nature would kill another thirty. We are gory humanitarians in comparison. Of the six hundred students that are left, most were in the top one percent of applicants. Of the six hundred that are dead, most were in the bottom one percent of applicants. There was no waste.” He chuckles and looks around the table with a surprising amount of pride. “Except for that idiot, Priam. Yeah. There’s a lesson for you lot. He was a brilliant boy—beautiful, strong, fast, a genius who studied day and night with a dozen tutors. But he was pampered. And someone, I won’t say who, because that’d undermine the fun of this whole curriculum, but someone knocked him down onto the stone and then stomped on his trachea till he died. It took awhile.”

He puts his hands behind his head.

“Now! This is your new family. House Mars—one of twelve Houses. No, you are not special because you live on Mars and are in House Mars. Those in House Venus on Venus are not special. They merely fit the House. You get the flow. After the Institute, you’re looking for apprenticeships—hopefully with the families Bellona, Augustus, or Arcos, if you want to do me proud. Prior graduates from House Mars may help you find these apprenticeships, may offer you apprenticeships of their own, or maybe you’ll be so successful that you don’t need anyone’s help.

“But let us make it crystal. Right now you are babies. Stupid little babies. Your parents handed you everything. Others wiped your little asses. Cooked your food. Fought your wars. Tucked your little shiny noses in at night. Rusters dig before they get a chance to screw; they build your cities and find your fuel and pick up your shit. Pinks learn the art of getting someone’s jollies off before they even need to shave. Obsidians have the worst gory life you could imagine—nothing but frost and steel and pain. They were bred for their work, trained early for it. All you little princelings and princesses have had to do was look like little versions of Mommy and Daddy and learn your manners and play piano and equestrian and sport. But now you belong to the Institute, to House Mars, to the Prefecture of Mars, to your Color, to the Society. Blah. Blah.”

Fitchner’s smirk is lazy. His veiny hand rests on his paunch.

“Tonight you finally did something yourselves. You beat a baby just like you. But that’s worth about as much as a Pinkwhore’s fart. Our little Society balances on the tip of a needle. The other Colors would rip your gorydamn hearts out given the chance. And then there’s the Silvers. The Coppers. The Blues. You think they’d be loyal to a bunch of babies? You think the Obsidians will follow little turds like you? Those babystranglers would make you their little cuddleslaves if they saw weakness. So you must show none.”

“So, what, the Institute is supposed to make us tough?” huge Titus grunts.

“No, you colossal oaf. It’s supposed to make you smart, cruel, wise, hard. It’s supposed to age you fifty years in ten months and show you what your ancestors did to give you this empire. May I continue?”

He blows a gumbubble.

“Now, House Mars.” His thin hand scratches his belly. “Yeah. We’ve got a proud House that could maybe even match some of the Elder Families. We’ve got Politicos, Praetors, and Judiciars. The current ArchGovernors of Mercury and Europa, a Tribune, dozens of Praetors, two Justices, an Imperator of a fleet. Even Lorn au Arcos of the Family Arcos, third most powerful family on Mars, for those not keeping track, maintains his bonds with us.

“All of those highUps are looking for new talent. They picked you from the other candidates to fill the roster. Impress these important men and women and you’ll have an apprenticeship after this. Win and you’ll have your pick of apprenticeships within the House or an Elder Family; maybe even Arcos himself will want you. If that happens, you’ll be on the fast track to position, fame, and power.”

I lean forward.

“But win?” I ask. “What is there to win?”

He smiles.

“At this moment, you are in a remote terraformed valley in the southernmost part of Valles Marineris. In this valley, there are twelve Houses in twelve castles. After orientation tomorrow, you will go to war with your fellow students to dominate the valley by any means at your disposal. Consider it a case study in gaining and ruling an empire.”

There are murmurs of excitement. It is a game. And here I thought I would have to study something in a classroom.

“And what if you are Primus of the winning House?” Antonia asks. She twirls a finger through her golden curls.

“Then welcome to glory, darling. Welcome to fame and power.”

So, I must be Primus.

We eat a plain dinner. When Fitchner leaves, Cassius stirs, his voice coming cold and filled with dark humor.

“Let us all play a game, my friends. We will each say whom we killed. I will start. Nexus au Celintus. I knew him when we were children, as I know some of you. I broke his trachea with my fingers.” No one speaks. “Come now. Families should not keep secrets.”

Still, no one answers.

Sevro is the first to leave, making his derision for Cassius’s game clear. First to eat. First to sleep. I want to follow. Instead, I make small talk with peaceful Roque and massive Titus after Cassius gives up on his game and retires as well. Titus is impossible to like. He’s not funny, but everything is a joke to him. It’s like he’s sneering at me, at everyone, even though he is smiling. I want to hit him, but he doesn’t give me a reason. Everything he says is perfectly innocuous. Yet I hate him. It’s like he doesn’t think me a human; instead I’m just a chess piece and he’s waiting to move me around. No. Shove me around. He somehow forgot to be seventeen or eighteen like the rest. He is a man. Taller than two meters, easy. Maybe nearing two and a half meters. Lithe Roque, on the other hand, reminds me so much of my brother Kieran, if Kieran could kill. His smiles are kind. His words patient and wistful and wise, just as they had been earlier. Lea, the girl who looks like a limping baby deer, follows him everywhere. He’s patient with her in a way I couldn’t be.

Late in the night, I look for the places where the students died. I cannot find them. The stairs no longer exist. The castle has swallowed them. I find rest in a long dormitory filled with thin mattresses. Wolves howl from the shifting mists that cloak the highlands beyond our castle. I find sleep quickly.

21
Our Dominion

Fitchner wakes us from the long dormitories in the dark of morning. Grumbling, we roll out of double bunk beds and set out from the keep to the castle’s square, where we stretch, then set off at a run. We lope easily in the .37grav.

Clouds drop soft showers. The canyon walls fifty kilometers west and forty kilometers east of our little valley tower six kilometers high. Between them is an ecosystem of mountains, forests, rivers, and plains. Our battlefield.

Ours is a highland territory. There rise mossy hills and craggy peaks that dip into U-shaped, grassy glens. Mist blankets all, even the thick forests that lie like homespun quilts over the foothills. Our castle stands on a hill just north of a river in the middle of a bowl-like glen—half grass, half woods. Greater hills cup the glen in a semicircle to the north and south. I should like it here. Eo would have. But without her, I feel as lonely as our castle looks on its high, removed hill. I reach for the locket, for our haemanthus. Neither is with me. I feel empty in this paradise.

Three walls of our hill castle stand atop eighty-meter stone cliffs. The castle itself is huge. Its walls rise thirty meters. The gatehouse swells out from the walls as a fortress with turrets. Inside the walls, our square keep is part of the northwestern wall and rises fifty meters. A gentle slope leads up from the glen’s floor to the castle’s western gate, opposite the keep. We run down this slope along a lonely dirt road. Mist embraces us. I relish the cold air. It purifies me after hours of fitful sleep.

The mist burns away as the summer day dawns. Deerling, thinner and faster than the creatures of Earth, graze in the fir woods. Birds circle above. A single raven promises eerie things. Sheep litter the field and goats wander the high rocky hills we run up in a line of fifty and one. Others of my House may see animals of Earth, or curious creatures the Carvers decided to make for fun. But I see only food and clothing.

The sacred animals of Mars make their home in our territory. Woodpeckers hammer oak and fir. At night, wolves howl across the highlands and stalk during the day through the woodlands of our territory. There are snakes near the river. Vultures in the quiet gulches. Killers running beside me. What friends I have. If only Loran or Kieran or Matteo were here to watch my back. Someone I could trust. I’m a sheep wearing wolves clothing in a pack of wolves.

As Fitchner runs us up the rocky heights, Lea, the girl with the limp, falls. He lazily nudges at her with his foot till we carry her on our shoulders. Roque and I bear the load. Titus smirks, and only Cassius helps when Roque tires. Then Pollux, a lean, craggy-voiced boy with buzzed hair, takes over for me. He sounds like he’s been smoking burners since he was two.

We trudge through a summer valley of forests and fields. Bugs nip at us there. The Goldbrows drip with sweat, but I do not. This is an icy bath compared to the rigors of my old frysuit. All about me are trim fit, but Cassius, Sevro, Antonia, Quinn (the bloodydamn fastest girl or thing I’ve ever seen on two feet), Titus, three of his new friends, and I could leave the rest behind. Only Fitchner with his gravBoots would outpace us. He bounds along like a deerling, then he chases one down and his razor whips out. It encircles the deerling’s throat, and he contracts the blade to kill the animal.

“Supper,” he says, grinning. “Drag it.”

“You could have killed it closer to the castle,” Sevro mutters.

Fitchner scratches his head and looks around. “Did anyone else hear a squat ugly little Goblin go… well, whatever sound Goblins make? Drag it.”

Sevro grabs the deer’s leg. “Dickwit.”

We reach the summit of a rocky height five kilometers southwest of our castle. A stone tower dominates the peak. From the top, we survey the battlefield. Somewhere out there, our enemies do the same. The theater of war stretches to the south farther than we can see. A snowy mountain range fills the western horizon. To the southeast, a primordial wood knots the landscape. Dividing the two is a lush plain split by a massive southbound river, the Argos, and its tributaries. Farther south, past the plains and rivers, the ground dips away into marshes. I cannot see beyond. A great floating mountain hovers two kilometers up in the bluish, star-spackled sky. It is Olympus, Fitchner explains, an artificial mountain where the Proctors watch each year’s class. Its peak shimmers with a fairy-tale castle. Lea shuffles closer to stand beside me.

“How does it float?” she asks sweetly.

I haven’t the faintest clue.

I look north.

Two rivers in a forested valley split our northern highland territory, which is at the edge of a vast highland wilderness. They form a V pointing southwest to the lowlands, where they eventually form one tributary to the Argos. Surrounding the valley are the highlands—dramatic hills and dwarf mountains scarred with gulches where mist still clings.

“This is Phobos Tower,” Fitchner says. The tower lies in the far southwest of our territory. He drinks from a canteen while we go thirsty, and points northwest where the two rivers meet in the valley to form their V. A massive tower crowns a distant dwarf mountain range just beyond the junction. “And that is Deimos.” He traces an imaginary line to show us the bounds of House Mars’s territory.

The eastern river is called the Furor. The western, which runs just south of our castle, is the Metas. A single bridge spans the Metas. An enemy would have to cross it to enter between the V into the valley and strike northeast across easy, wooded ground to reach our castle.

“This is a slaggin’ joke, isn’t it?” Sevro asks Fitchner.

“Whatever do you mean, Goblin?” Fitchner pops a gumbubble.

“Our legs are wide as a Pinkwhore’s. All these mountains and hills and anyone can just walk right in the front door. It’s a perfect flat passage from the lowlands right to our gate. Just one stinking river to cross.”

“Pointing out the obvious, eh? You know, I really do not like you. You foul little Goblin.” Fitchner stares at Sevro for a purposeful moment and then shrugs. “Anyway, I’ll be on Olympus.”

“What does that mean, Proctor?” Cassius asks sourly. He doesn’t like the look of things either. Though his eyes are red from weeping through the night for his dead brother, it hasn’t dulled his impressiveness.

“I mean it’s your problem, little prince. Not mine. No one’s going to fix anything for you. I am your Proctor. Not your mommy. You’re in school, remember? So if your legs are open, well, make a chastity belt to protect the softspot.”

There’s general grumbling.

“Could be worse,” I say. I point past Antonia’s head toward the southern plains where an enemy fortress spans a great river. “We could be exposed like those poor bastards.”

“Those poor bastards have crops and orchards,” Fitchner muses. “You have…” He looks over the ledge to find the deer he killed. “Well, Goblin here left the deer behind, so you have nothing. The wolves will eat what you do not.”

“Unless we eat the wolves,” Sevro mutters, drawing strange looks from the rest of our House.

So we have to get our own food.

Antonia points to the lowlands.

“What are they doing?”

A black dropship slides down from the clouds. It settles in the center of the grassy plain between us and the distant enemy river fortress of Ceres. Two Obsidians and a dozen Tinpots stand guard as Browns hustle out to set hams, steaks, biscuits, wine, milk, honey, and cheeses onto a disposable table eight kilometers from Phobos Tower.

“A trap, obviously,” Sevro snorts.

“Thank you, Goblin,” Cassius sighs. “But I haven’t had breakfast.” Circles ring his reckless eyes. He glances over at me through the crowd of our fellows and offers a smile. “Up for a race, Darrow?”

I start with surprise. Then I smile. “On your mark.”

And he’s off.

I’ve done dumber things to feed my family. I did dumber things when someone I loved died. Cassius is owed the company as he races down the steep hillside.

Forty-eight kids watch us scamper to fill our bellies; none follow.

“Bring me a slice of honeyed ham!” Fitchner shouts. Antonia calls us idiots. The dropship floats away as we leave the highlands behind for gentler terrain. Eight kilometers in .376grav (Earth standard) is a cinch. We scramble down rocky hillsides, then hit the lowland plains at full tilt through ankle-high grass. Cassius beats me to the tables by a body length. He’s fast. We each take a pint of the ice water on the table. I drink mine faster. He laughs.

“Looks like the House Ceres’s mark on their flagpole. The Harvest Goddess.” Cassius points over across the green plains to the fortress. A few trees dot the several kilometers between us and the castle. Pennants flap from their ramparts. He pops a grape into his mouth. “We should take a closer look before chowin’ down. A little scouting.”

“Agreed… but something isn’t right here,” I say quietly.

Cassius laughs at the open plain. “Nonsense. We’d see trouble if it was coming. And I don’t think any one of them is going to be faster than us two. We can strut up to their gates and take a shit if we so like.”

“I do have something brewing.” I touch my stomach.

Yet still, something is wrong. And not just in my belly.

It’s six kilometers of open ground between the river fortress and us. The river gurgles in the distance to the right. Forest to the far left. Plains in front. Mountains beyond the river. Wind rustles the long grass and a sparrow coasts in with the breeze. It swoops low to the ground before flinching up and away. I laugh loudly and lean against the table.

“They are in the grass,” I whisper. “A trap.”

“We can steal sacks from them and carry more of this back,” he says loudly. “Run?”

“Pixie.”

He grins, though neither of us is sure if we’re allowed to start the fighting during orientation day. Whatever.

On three, we kick apart the disposable table’s legs till we each have a meter of duroplastic as a weapon. I scream like a madman and sprint toward the spot where the sparrow fled. Cassius at my side. Five House Ceres Golds rise from the grass. They’re startled by our mad rush. Cassius catches the first in the face with a proper fencer’s lunge. I’m less graceful. My shoulder is stiff and sore. I scream and break my weapon across one of their knees. He goes down howling. Duck someone’s swing. Cassius deflects it. We dance as two. There’s three of them left. One squares up with me. He doesn’t have a knife or a bat. No, he has something I’m far more interested in. A question mark of a sword. A slingBlade for reaping grain. He faces me with his back hand on his hip and the crooked blade out like a razor. If it were a razor, I’d be dead. But it’s not. I make him miss, block one of Cassius’s attackers’ blows. Lurch forward at my attacker. I’m much quicker than he and my grip is like durosteel to his. So I take his slingBlade and his knife before I punch him down.

When he sees how I twirl the slingBlade in my hand, the last uninjured boy knows it’s time to surrender. Cassius jumps high in the .376grav and executes an unnecessary twirling sideways kick to the boy’s face. Reminds me of the dancers and leapers of Lykos.

Kravat. The Silent Dance. Eerily similar to the boast dancing of young Reds.

Nothing is silent about the boys’ curses. I feel no pity for these students. They all murdered someone the night before, just like me. There are no innocents in this game. The only thing that worries me is seeing how Cassius dispatched his victims. He is grace and finesse. I am rage and momentum. He could kill me in a second, if he knew my secret.

“What a lark!” he croons. “You were gory terrifying! You just took his weapon! Gory fast! Glad we weren’t paired earlier. Prime stuff! What have you to say for yourselves, you sneaking fools?”

The captured Golds just swear at us.

I stand over them and cock my head. “Is this the first time you’ve lost at something?” No answer. I frown. “Well, that must be embarrassing.”

Cassius’s face shines—for a moment he’s forgotten his brother’s death. I haven’t. I feel darkness. Hollow. Evil when the adrenaline fades. Is this what Eo wanted? For me to play games? Fitchner arrives in the air above us, clapping his hands. His gravBoots glimmer golden. He’s got his ham slice between his teeth.

“Reinforcements come!” he laughs.

Titus and a half dozen of the faster boys and girls run toward us from the highlands. Opposite, a golden shape rises from the distant river fortress and flies toward us. A beautiful woman with short-cropped hair settles next to Fitchner in the air. The Proctor of House Ceres. She carries a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Mars! A picnic!” she calls, referring to him by his House’s deity.

“So who arranged for this drama, Ceres?” Fitchner asks.

“Oh, Apollo, I suppose. He’s lonely up in his mountain estates. Here, this is zinfandel from his vines. Much better than last year’s varietal.”

“Delicious!” Fitchner proclaims. “But your boys were squatting in the grass. Almost as if they expected the picnic to spontaneously manifest. Suspicious, no?”

“Details!” Proctor Ceres laughs. “Pendantic details!”

“Well, here’s a detail. It seems two of mine are worth five of yours this year, my dear.”

“These pretty boys?” Ceres snickers. “I thought the vain ones went to Apollo and Venus.”

“Oho! Well, yours certainly fight like housewives and farmers. Well placed, they were.”

“Don’t judge them yet, you cad. They are midDraft picks. My highDrafts are elsewhere, earning their first calluses!”

“Learning the ovens? Huzzah,” Fitchner declares ironically. “Bakers do make the best rulers, so I’ve heard.”

She nudges him. “Oh, you devil. No wonder you interviewed for the Rage Knight post. Such a scoundrel!”

They clink their glasses together as we watch from the ground.

“How I love orientation day,” Ceres titters. “Mercury just let a hundred thousand rats loose in Jupiter’s citadel. But Jupiter was ready because Diana tattled and arranged the delivery of a thousand cats. Jupiter’s boys won’t go hungry like last year. Cats will be as fat as Bacchus.”

“Diana is a harlot,” Fitchner declares.

“Be kind!”

“I was. I sent her a great phallic cake filled with live woodpeckers.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You beast!” Ceres caresses his arm and I note the free-loving demeanor these people have. I wonder if other Proctors are lovers as well. “Her fortress will be riddled with holes. Oh, the sound must be horrible. Well played, Mars. They say Mercury is the trickster, but your japes always have a certain… flair!”

“Flair, eh? Well, I’m sure I could rustle up some tricks for you on Olympus…”

“Huzzah,” she coos suggestively.

They toast again, floating above their sweating and bloody students. I can’t help but laugh. These people are mad. Bloodydamn crazy in their empty Golden heads. How are they my rulers?

“Oy! Fitch! If you don’t mind. What are we supposed to do with these farmers?” Cassius calls up. He pokes one of our injured captives on the nose. “What are the rules?”

“Eat them!” Fitchner cries. “And Darrow, put down that gory scythe. You look like a grain reaper.”

I don’t drop it. It is close to the shape of my slingBlade from home. Not as sharp, because it isn’t meant to kill, but the balance is no different.

“You know you could let my children go and give them back the reaping scythe,” Ceres suggests down to us.

“Give me a kiss and you have a deal,” Cassius calls up.

“The Imperator’s boy?” she asks Fitchner. He nods. “Come ask for one when you’re Scarred, little prince.” She looks over her shoulder. “Until then, I would advise that you and the reaper run.”

We hear the hooves before we see the painted horses galloping at us across the plain. They come from the opened gates of House Ceres’s castle. The girls on the horses’ backs carry nets.

“They gave you horses! Horses!” Fitchner complains. “That is so unfair!”

We run and barely make it to the woods. I didn’t like my first encounter with horses. They still scare the piss out of me. All snorting and stomping. Cassius and I gasp for breath. My shoulder aches. Two of Titus’s reinforcements are captured as they find themselves stranded in open ground. Bold Titus knocks a horse over and is laughing as he’s about to lay waste to one of the girls with his boot. Ceres zaps him with a stunfist and makes peace with Fitchner. The stunfist causes Titus to piss himself. Only Sevro is careless enough to laugh. Cassius says something about bad manners, but he snickers quietly. Titus notices.

“Are we allowed to kill them or not?” he growls that night at dinner. We eat the leftovers from Bacchus’s feast. “Or am I going to get stunned every time?”

“Well, the point isn’t to kill them,” Fitchner says. “So no. Let’s not go around massacring your classmates, you mad ape.”

“But we did before!” Titus protests.

“What is wrong with you?” Fitchner asks. “The Passage was where the culling is done. It’s no longer survival of the fittest, you mad, stupid, colossal sack of muscle. What would be the point if we now had the fittest just murder each other till only a few are left? There are new tests to pass now.”

“Ruthlessness.” Antonia crosses her arms. “So now it’s not acceptable? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, it better be acceptable.” Titus grins broadly. He’s been boasting all night about knocking over the horse, as if it’d make everyone forget the piss that stained his pants. Some have. He’s already gathered a pack of hounds. Only Cassius and I seem to have an ounce of his respect, but even we’re smirked at. So is Fitchner.

Fitchner sets down his honeyed ham.

“Let us clarify, children, so this water buffalo doesn’t go around stomping on skulls. Ruthlessness is acceptable, dear Antonia. If someone dies by accident, that is understandable. Accidents happen to the best of us. But you will not murder each other with scorchers. You will not hang people from your ramparts unless they’re already dead. MedBots are on standby in case any medical attention is direly needed. They are fast enough to save lives, most of the time.”

He pops a gumbubble. “Remember, though, the point is not to kill. We don’t care if you’re as ruthless as Vlad Dracula. He still lost. The point is to win. That’s what we want.”

And that simple test of cruelty is already past.

“We want you to show us your brilliance. Like Alexander. Like Caesar, Napoleon, and Merrywater. We want you to manage an army, distribute justice, arrange for provisions of food and armor. Any fool can stick a blade into another’s belly. The school’s role is to find the leaders of men, not the killers of men. So the point, you silly little children, is not to kill, but to conquer. And how do you conquer in a game where there are eleven enemy tribes?”

“Take them out one at a time,” Titus answers knowingly.

“No, ogre.”

“Dumbass,” Sevro snickers to himself. Titus’s pack quietly watches the smallest boy in the Institute. No threats are snarled. No faces twitch. Just a silent promise. It’s hard to remember that they are all geniuses. They look too pretty. Too athletic. Too cruel to be geniuses.

“Anyone besides Ogre have a guess?” Fitchner asks.

No one answers.

“You make one tribe out of twelve,” I finally say. “By taking slaves.”

Just like the Society. Build on the backs of others. It isn’t cruel. It is practical.

Fitcher claps mockingly. “Prime, Reaper. Prime. Looks like someone is bucking for Primus.” Everyone shifts in agitation at that last bit. Fitchner pulls a long box from under the table. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, this is what you use to make the slaves.” He pulls out our standard. “Protect this. Protect your castle. And conquer all the others.”

22
The Tribes

Fitchner is gone in the morning. In his chair lies the standard. It is a one-foot length of iron tipped with our howling wolf; a serpent coils beneath the wolf’s feet, the star-tipped pyramid of the Society beneath that. A five-foot oak pole connects to the iron end. If the castle is our home, the standard is our honor. With it, we are able to turn enemies into our slaves by pressing it to their forehead. There a wolf sigil will appear until another standard is pressed to the forehead. Slaves must obey our express commands or forever be Shamed.

I sit across from the standard in the morning dark, eating Apollo’s leftovers. A wolf calls out in the mist. Its howl comes through the keep’s high window. Tall Antonia is the first to join me. She glides in like a lonely tower or a beautiful golden spider. I haven’t decided which way her personality runs. We exchange glances but no greetings. She wants Primus.

Cassius and raspy Pollux saunter in next. Pollux grumbles about having to go to bed without having Pinks to tuck him in.

“A positively hideous standard, don’t you think?” Antonia complains. “They could at least have given it a splash of color. I think it should be draped with red for rage and blood.”

“It’s not too heavy.” Cassius hefts the standard by its pole. “Reckoned it’d be gold.” He admires the golden Primus hand within the block of black stone. He wants it too. “And they gave us a map. Swell.”

A new stone map dominates one of the walls. The detail near our castle is remarkable. The rest less so. The fog of war. Cassius claps me on the back and joins in eating. He doesn’t know I heard him weep again in the night. We shared a new bunk in a barracks in the keep’s high tower. Many others still sleep in the main tower. Titus and his friends have taken the low tower even though they don’t have enough bodies to fill it.

Most of the House has woken by the time Sevro drags in a dead wolf by its legs. It’s already gutted and skinned.

“Goblin has brought victuals!” Cassius applauds daintily. “Hmm. We will need firewood. Does anyone know how to make a fire?” Sevro does. Cassius grins. “Of course you do, Goblin.”

“Found the sheep too easy to kill?” I ask. “Where’d you get the weapon?”

“Born with them.” His fingernails are bloody.

Antonia wrinkles her nose. “Where in the hell were you raised?”

Sevro presents his middle finger to her, the crux.

“Ah,” Antonia sniffs. “Hell, then.”

“So, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, it will be some time before anyone has enough bars of merit to become Primus,” Cassius declares when we’ve all gathered around the table. “Naturally, I was thinking that we need a leader before Primus is chosen.” He stands and scoots away from Sevro so that his fingers rest on the edge of the standard. “In order for us to function, we must have immediate and coordinated decisions.”

“And which of you two fools do you think it should be?” Antonia asks dryly. Her large eyes glance from him to me. She turns to regard the others, voice sweet like thick syrup. “At this point, what makes any of us better suited to lead than anyone else?”

“They got us dinner… and breakfast,” Lea says meekly from beside Roque. She gestures to the leftover picnic victuals.

“While running right into a trap—” Roque reminds everyone.

Antonia nods sagely. “Yes, yes. A wise point. Rashness can hurt us.”

“—but they did fight free,” Roque finishes, earning a glare from Antonia.

“With table legs against real weapons,” Titus rumbles his approval, with a qualification. “But then they fled and left the food behind. So it was Fitchner who gave us the food. They would have given it to the enemy, delivering food like Browns.”

“Yeah, that’s a twist on what happened,” Cassius says.

Titus shrugs. “I only saw you running like a little Pixie.”

Cassius goes cold.

“Watch your manners, goodman.”

Titus holds up his hands. “Merely observing; why so angry, little prince?”

“You watch your manners, goodman, or we’ll have to trade our words for blades.” Cassius wields his looted pitchfork and points it at Titus. “You heed, Titus au Ladros?”

Titus holds gaze with him, then glances over at me, grouping me with Cassius. Suddenly Cassius and I form a tribe in everyone’s eyes. The paradigm shifts that quickly. Politics. I take my time twirling my looted knife between my fingers. The whole table watches the knife. Sevro especially. My Red right hand has collected a million metric tones of helium-3 with its dexterity. My left, half a million. The dexterity of an average lowRed would startle these Golds. I dazzle them. The knife is like a hummingbird’s wings in my nimble fingers. I look calm but my mind is racing.

We have all killed. Those were the stakes. What are they now? Titus has already made it clear that he wants to kill. I could stop him now, I wager. Drive my knife into his neck. But the thought almost makes me drop my blade. I feel Eo’s death in my hands. I hear the wet thump of Julian dying. I can’t bear the blood, especially when it doesn’t seem necessary. I can back this huge puppy down.

I level my eyes coldly at Titus. His smile is slow, the disdain barely noticeable. He’s calling me out. I have to fight him or something if he doesn’t look away—that’s what wolves do, I think.

My knife spins and spins. And suddenly Titus is laughing. He looks away. My heart slows. I’ve won. I hate politics. Especially in a room full of alphas.

“Of course I hear you, Cassius. You’re standing ten feet away,” Titus chuckles.

Titus doesn’t think he’s strong enough to challenge Cassius and me openly, even with his pack. He saw what we did to the Ceres boys. But just like that the lines are drawn. I stand suddenly, confirming that I am with Cassius. It strips Titus of any momentum.

“Is there anyone who wouldn’t want either of us to lead?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t want Antonia to lead. She’s a bitch,” Sevro says.

Antonia shrugs her agreement but cocks her head.

“Cassi, why are you in such a rush to find us a leader?” she asks.

“If we do not have one leader, then we will fracture and do as we each think is best,” Cassius says. “That’s how we lose.”

“Instead of what you think is best,” she says with a soft smile and a nod. “I see.”

“Don’t give me that condescension, Antonia. Priam even agreed we needed one leader.”

“Who is Priam?” Titus laughs. He’s trying to get attention back on himself once more. Every Gold kid on the planet knew Priam. Now Titus tries to make it clear who killed him, and the others take note. Momentum regained. Except I know Titus didn’t kill Priam. They wouldn’t put someone like him in with Priam. They would have put a weakling in there. So Titus is a liar as well as a bully.

“Ah, I see. Because you plotted with Priam, you know what needs to be done, Cassius? You know better than all of us?” Antonia waves at the table. “You’re telling us we’re helpless without your guidance?”

She’s trapped him, and me too.

“Listen, boys, I know you’re eager to lead,” she continues, “I get that. We are all leaders by nature. Each person in this room is a born genius, a born captain. But that is why the Primus merit system exists. When someone has earned five fingers of merit and is ready to be Primus, then we will have a leader.

“Until then, I say we hold out. If Cassius or Darrow earns it, then so be it. I’ll do whatever they command, obedient as a Pink, simple as a Red.” She gestures to the others. “Until then, I think one of you should also have a chance to earn it… After all, it may decide your career!”

She’s clever. And she’s sunk us. Every brat in the room was no doubt wishing they’d been more assertive from the get-go, wishing they could have another chance to make people notice them. Now Antonia gives it to them. This will be chaos. And she may end up as Primus. Definitely a spider.

“Look!” Lea says from Roque’s side.

A horn bellows beyond the castle.

The standard chooses that moment to shimmer. Snake and wolf shed iron for gleaming gold. Not only that, but the stone map on the wall comes alive. Our wolf banner ripples over a miniature of our castle. Ceres’s banner does the same. No other castles mark the map, but the banners of the undiscovered Houses flap off in the map’s key. No doubt they’ll find a home as soon as we scout the surrounding territory.

The game has begun. And now everyone wants to be the Primus.

I see why demokracy is illegal. First comes yelling. Frustration. Indecision. Disagreements. Ideas. Scout. Fortify. Gather food. Lay traps. Blitz. Raid. Defense. Offense. Pollux spits. Titus knocks him out cold. Antonia leaves. Sevro says something snide to Titus and drags his wolf off to God knows where, never having lit a fire. It’s like my Lambda drillteam whenever a headTalk would take an hour sick. That’s how I learned I could drill. Barlow snuck off to take a smoke and I hopped on the rig and did as I thought was best. I do the same now as the children bicker.

Cassius, Roque, and Lea—who follows Roque everywhere—come with me, though Cassius likely thinks we follow him. We agree that the others will not know what to do and so will inevitably do nothing today. They will guard the castle or seek out wood for a fire or cluster around the standard for fear of it walking off.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if our enemies are slinking through the hills toward us. I don’t know if they are making alliance against Mars. I don’t know how the damn game is even played. But for some reason, I assume that not all of the other Houses will fall to discord like this. We of Mars seem more prone to disagreement.

I ask Cassius what he thinks we should do.

“Once, I challenged this prancing oaf to a duel for disrespecting my family—an Augustus fop. He was very methodical—tightened his gloves, tied back his pretty hair, swished his razor as he did before every gory practice bout he’s ever had in at the Agea Martial Club.”

“And?”

“And I hooked him and stabbed him through the kneecap while he was still swishing his razor in preparation.” He catches Lea’s disapproval. “What? The duel had begun. I’m foxy, but I’m not a beast. I just win.”

“I feel like you all think that,” I say. “We all, I mean.”

They don’t notice my slipup.

His point stands. Our House can’t attack an enemy in our state, but an enemy could attack us as we run about preparing, and ruin all my hopes of rising within the Society. So, information. We need to know if our enemies are in a glen half a kilometer to the north or if they are fifteen kilometers south. Are we at a corner of the playing field or in the center? Are there enemies in the highlands? North of the highlands?

Cassius and I agree. We must scout.

We split up. Cassius and I head to Phobos and then move counterclockwise. Lea and Roque strike to Deimos and scout clockwise. We’re to meet at dusk.

We don’t see a soul from the top of Phobos. The lowlands are empty of horses and Ceres’s fighters, and the highland range to the south is full of lochs and goats. Southeast, atop a high dwarf mountain, we glimpse part of the Greatwoods to the south and southeast. An army of giants could be hiding there for all we know, and we can’t investigate; it would take half a day to cover the distance to even make it close to the treeline.

Some ten kilometers from our castle, we find a weatherworn stone fort upon a low hill guarding a pass. Inside is a rustic survival box of iodine, food, a compass, rope, six durobags, a toothbrush, sulfur matches, and simple bandages. We store the items in a clear durobag.

So supplies have been hidden about the valley. Something tells me there are more important items hidden in the countryside than little survivor kits. Weapons? Transportation? Armor? Technology? They can’t mean for us to make war with sticks and stones and metal tools. And if they don’t want us to kill each other, stun weapons must soon replace our metal ones.

We earn nasty sunburns that first day. The mist chills them as we return. Titus and his pack, six now, have just returned from a fruitless incursion to the plains. They’ve killed two goats but don’t have a fire to cook with, since Sevro slipped off somewhere. I don’t tell them about my matches. Cassius and I agree that Titus, if he wants to be the big man, should at least be able to conquer fire. Sevro, wherever he is, must agree as well. Titus’s boys hit metal on stone trying to create sparks, but the stones of the castle don’t spark. Clever Proctors.

Titus’s pack makes the dregs, the lowDrafts, fetch wood despite the fact that they have no fires. They all go hungry that night. Only Roque and Lea don’t. They get some of our survival bars. I like the pair even if they are Golds, and I excuse befriending them by telling myself that I do it only to build my own tribe. Cassius seems to think that fast midDraft girl, Quinn, will be useful. But he can make himself think that about most pretty girls.

The tribes grow, and the first lesson is already under way.

Antonia finds friends with a squat, sour, curlyheaded fellow named Cipio, and she manages to send groups armed with shovels and axes found in the castle to garrison Deimos and Phobos. The girl may be a spoiled witch, but at least she isn’t stupid. Then Titus’s pack steals their axes as they sleep and I revise my opinion.

Cassius and I scout together. On the third day, we see smoke rising in the distance, maybe some twenty kilometers to the east. It is like a beacon in the dusk. Enemy scouting parties would be out like us. If it were closer or we had horses, we would investigate. Or if we had more men, we might set out overnight and plan a raid for slaves. The distance and our lack of coherence make all the difference. Between us and the smoke are ravines and gulches that could hide warbands. Then there’s many kilometers of plains to walk exposed. We won’t make the trek. Not when some Houses have horses. I don’t tell Cassius this, but I am afraid. The highlands feel safe, but just out there in the landscape beyond are roving bands of psychotic godlings. Godlings I do not want to run across quite yet.

The thought of meeting other Houses is made all the more terrifying by the idea that even home is not safe. It’s like Octavia au Lune always says: no man can pursue any endeavor in the face of tribal warfare. We can’t afford to leave Titus alone for too long. He’s already stolen berries Lea and Quinn collected. And this morning he tried to use the standard on Quinn to see if it could make slaves for his raiding parties out of the House’s own members. It couldn’t.

“We have to bind the House together somehow,” Cassius tells me as we scout the northern highlands. “The Institute is with us for the rest of our lives. If we lose, we may never gain position, ever.”

“And if we’re enslaved during the course of the game?” I ask.

He looks worriedly over at me. “What worse loss could there be?”

As if I needed more motivation.

“Your father won his year, I wager. He was Primus?” I ask. To be an Imperator, he’d have to have won his year.

“Right. Always knew he won his year, though I had no slagging idea what that meant till we got here.”

We both agree that in order to bind our House back together, Titus must go. But it is futile to fight him outright; that chance passed after the first day. His tribe has grown too large.

“I say we kill him in his sleep,” Cassius suggests. “You and I could do it.”

His words chill me. We make no decision, yet the proposition serves to remind me that he and I are different creatures. Or are we really? His wrath is a cruel, cold thing. Yet I never see the anger again, not even around Titus. He’s all smiles and laughter and challenging members of Titus’s pack to races and wrestling when they aren’t going out on raids—just as I am around my enemies.

Yet while I’m regarded warily by most, Cassius is loved by all except Titus’s pack. He’s even started sneaking off with Quinn. I like her. She killed a deer with a trap, then told a story about how she killed the thing with her teeth. Even showed us evidence—hair between her teeth and gums along with bitemarks on the deer. We thought we had a prettier Sevro on our hands till she laughed too hard to go on with the tall tale. Cassius helped her get the deer hair out of her teeth. I like a committed liar.

Conditions worsen in the first few days. People remain hungry because we’ve yet to build a fire in the castle, and hygiene is quickly forgotten when two of our girls are snatched up by Ceres horsemen as they bathe in the river just beneath our gate. The Golds are confused when even their fine pores begin clogging and they gain pimples.

“Looks like a beesting!” Roque laughs to Cassius and me. “Or a radial, distant sun!”

I pretend to be fascinated by it, as though I didn’t have them all my Red life.

Cassius leans forward to inspect it. “Brotherman, that is just—” Then Roque pops the pimple right into Cassius’s face, causing him to reel back and gag from disgust. Quinn falls over giggling.

“I do wonder sometimes,” Roque begins after Cassius has recovered, “as to the purpose of all this. How can this be the most efficient method of testing our merit, of making us into beings who can rule the Society?”

“And do you ever come to a conclusion?” Cassius asks warily. He keeps his distance now.

“Poets never do,” I say.

Roque chuckles. “Unlike most poets, I sometimes manage. And I have our answer to this.”

“Spit it out,” Cassius urges.

“As though I wasn’t going to without instruction from our resident primadonna.” Roque sighs. “They have us here because this valley was humanity before Gold ruled. Fractured. Disunited even in our very own tribe. They want us to go through the process that our forefathers went through. Step by step, this game will evolve to teach us new lessons. Hierarchies within the game will develop. We’ll have Reds, Golds, Coppers.”

“Pinks?” Cassius asks hopefully.

“Makes sense,” I say.

“Oh, that would be ripe strange,” Cassius laughs, twisting his wolf ring on his finger. “Mothers and fathers would be throwing fits if that went on. Probably why Titus leers at the girls. He likely wants a toy. Speaking of toys, where did he send Vixus?”

I laugh. Vixus, likely the most dangerous of Titus’s followers, and the others departed nearly two hours ago on Titus’s orders to use Phobos Tower’s height advantage to scout the plains in preparation for a raid on House Ceres.

“It’d be best to have Vixus on our side if we make a play,” I say. “He’s Titus’s right hand.”

Roque continues on a different train of thought.

“I… don’t know about Pinks,” Roque says. The idea of a Gold being a Pink offends him. “But… the rest is simple. This is a microcosm of the Solar System.”

“Seems like capture the flag, if you recall that game, with swords to me,” I reply. I never played the sport, but my studying with Matteo brought me up to speed on the games these children played in their parents’ gardens.

“Mhm.” Cassius nods. He shoves a mock-serious finger in Roque’s chest. “Agreed. So you can take your quick talk and put it where the sun dare not shine, Roque. We two great minds have decided. It’s a game of capture the flag.”

“I see.” Roque laughs. “Not all men can understand metaphor and stubtlty like I. But do not fear, muscular friends, I will be here to guide you through the mind-bending things. For instance, I can tell you that our first test will be to piece the House back together again before an enemy comes a-knocking.”

“Hell,” I mutter, looking out over the edge of the parapet.

“Something in your bum?” Cassius asks.

“Looks like the game just started.” I point downward.

Across the glen, just where the forest meets the grass plain, Vixus drags a girl by her hair. The first slave of House Mars. And far from being revolted, I’m jealous. Jealous that I did not capture her. Titus’s minion did, and that means that Titus now wields credibility.

23
Fracture

Though we all still sleep under the same roof, it only took four days for the House to dissolve into four tribes. Antonia, apparently the scion of a family that owns a sizable asteroid belt, gets the midDrafters: the talkers, the whiners, the brains, the dependents, the wimps, the snobs, and the politicos.

Titus draws mostly highDrafts or midDrafts—the physical specimens, the violent, the fast, the intrepid, the prototypically intelligent, the ambitious, the opportunists, the obvious selection for House Mars. The prodigy pianist, quiet Cassandra, is his. So is raspy Pollux and the psychotic Vixus, who shivers with pleasure at the mere idea of putting metal into flesh.

If Cassius and I had been more political, we might have managed to steal the highDrafts from Titus. Hell, we might have had everyone ready to follow if we just told them they had to obey. After all, Cassius and I were the strongest for a brief moment, but then we gave Titus time to intimidate and Antonia time to manipulate.

“Damned Antonia,” I say.

Cassius laughs and shakes his golden head as we bound east along the highlands in search of more hidden caches of supplies. My long legs can easily cover a kilometer in under a minute.

“Oh, you come to expect these things from her. If our families hadn’t spent holidays together when we were little things, I might have called her out as a demokrat on the first day. But she’s hardly that. More like Caesar or… what did they call them, Presidents?—a tyrant in necessity’s clothing.”

“She’s a turd in the swillbowl,” I say.

“What the gory slag does that mean?” Cassius laughs.

Uncle Narol could have told him.

“Sorry? Oh. Heard it in Yorkton once from a highRed. Means she’s a fly in the wine.”

“A highRed?” Cassius snorts. “One of my nannies was a highRed. I know. Odd. Should have been a Brown. But the woman would tell me stories as I tried to go to sleep.”

“That’s nice,” I say.

“I thought her an uppity bugger. Tried to tell Mother to make her shut up and leave me alone, because all she wanted to do was talk about vales and dreary romances that always end in some sort of sadness. Depressing creature.”

“What did your mother do when you complained?”

“Mother? Ha! She clapped me on the head and said there’s always something to learn from anybody. Even a highRed. Her and Father like to pretend they’re progressives. Confuses me.” He shakes his head. “But Yorkton. Julian couldn’t believe you were from Yorkton.”

The darkness returns in me. Even thinking of Eo doesn’t dispel it. Even thinking of my noble mission and all the license it gives me doesn’t banish the guilt. I’m the only one who shouldn’t feel guilty for the Passage, yet besides Roque, I think I am the only one who does. I look at my hands and remember Julian’s blood.

Cassius points up suddenly to the sky southwest of us. “What the gory hell?”

Dozens of blinking medBots pour from floating Olympus’s castle. We hear their distant whine. Proctors flicker after them like flaming arrows toward the distant southern mountains. Whatever has happened, one thing is certain: chaos reigns in the South.

Although my tribe continues to sleep in the castle, we’ve moved from the high tower to the gatehouse so we don’t have to rub shoulders with Titus’s lot. To keep safe, we leave our cooking as a secret.

We meet our tribe for supper by a loch in the northern highlands. They are not all highDrafts. We have some—Cassius and Roque. But then no one above seventeenth pick. We’ve some midDrafts—Quinn and Lea—but the rest are the dregs, the lowDrafts—Clown, Screwface, Weed, Pebble, and Thistle. This bothers Cassius even though the dregs of the Institute are still certifiably superhuman compared with the rest of the Colors. They are athletic. They are resilient. They never ask you to repeat yourself unless they are making a point. And they accept my orders, even anticipating what next I’ll ask them to do. I credit their less privileged upbringings.

Most are smarter than me. But I have that unique thing they call slangsmarts, proven by my high score in the extrapolational intelligence test. Not that it matters, I have sulfur matches and that makes me the god Prometheus. Neither Antonia nor Titus have fire as far as I know. So I’m the only one who can fill bellies. I make each of my tribe kill goats or sheep. No one is allowed to freeload, even though Screwface tries his best. They don’t notice my hands trembling when I cut my first goat’s throat with a knife. There’s so much trust in the beast’s eyes, followed by confusion as it dies, still thinking me its friend. The blood is warm, like Julian’s. The neck muscle tough. I have to saw with the dull knife, just as Lea does when she kills her first sheep, squealing as she does it. I make her skin it too with Thistle’s help. And when she cannot, I take her hands into my own and guide her along, giving her my strength.

“Daddy gonna have to cut up your meat for you too?” Thistle taunts.

“Shut it,” Roque says.

“She can fight her own battles, Roque. Lea, Thistle asked you a question.” Lea blinks over at me, wide eyes confused. “Ask her another, Thistle.”

“What’s gonna happen when we get in a tight spot with Titus, will you squeal then too? Child.” Thistle knows what I want her to do. I asked her to do it thirty minutes ago, before I brought the goat to Lea.

I motion my head at Lea to Thistle.

“You going to cry?” Thistle asks. “Wipe your eyes in—”

Lea screams and jumps at her. The two roll around punching each other in the face. It’s not long before Thistle’s got Lea in a chokehold. Roque stirs beside me. Quinn pulls him back down. Lea’s face goes purple. Her hands slap at Thistle’s. Then she passes out. I give Thistle a nod of thanks. The dark-faced girl gives a slow nod.

But Lea’s shoulders are squarer the next morning. She even musters enough courage to hold Roque’s hand. She also claimed to be a good cook; she isn’t. Roque tries his hand but he’s hardly any better. Eating their grub is like taking down stringy, dry sponges. Even Quinn, with all her stories, can’t muster up a recipe.

We cook goat and deer meat over our camp kitchen six kilometers from the castle, and we do it at night in the gulches so the light and smoke cannot be seen. We do not kill the sheep; instead we collect and deposit them in a northern fort for safekeeping. I could bring more over to my tribe with the food, but the food is as big a danger as it is a boon. What Titus and his killers would do if he found that we had fire, food, clean water…

I am returning to the castle with Roque from a scouting trip to the south when we hear noises coming from a small grove of trees. Creeping closer, we hear grunts and hacking sounds. Expecting to see a wolfpack ravaging a goat, we peer through the brush and find four of Titus’s soldiers squatting around a corpse. Their faces are bloody, eyes dark and ravenous as they tear strips out of the dead deer with their knives. Five days without fire, five days of bad berries, and they have already turned into savages.

“We have to give them matches,” Roque tells me afterwards.

“No. If we give them matches, then Titus will have even more power.”

“Does it matter at this point? They are going to get sick if they keep eating raw meat. They already are sick!”

“So they shit their pants,” I grunt. “There are worse things.”

“Tell me, Darrow. Would it be worse to have Titus in power and have Mars strong or for Darrow to be in power with Mars weak?”

“Better for whom?” I ask petulantly.

He only shakes his head.

“Let them rot their gory bellies,” is Cassius’s opinion. “They made their beds. Now let them shit in them.”

My army agrees.

I am fond of my army, the dregs, the lowDrafts. They aren’t as entitled or well-bred as the highDrafts. Most remember to thank me when I give them food—at first they didn’t. They don’t prance off after Titus on midnight axe-raids simply because it gets their jollies off. No, they follow us because Cassius is as charismatic as the sun and, in his light, the shadow I cast looks like it knows what it’s doing. It doesn’t. It, like me, was born in a mine.

Still, it does seem like I have some strategy. I have us make maps of our territory on digislates we found in a waterlogged cellar at the bottom of a ravine, but we still have no weapons other than my slingBlade and several knives and sharpened sticks. So whatever strategy we have is based in acquiring information.

Funny thing is, only one tribe has a silvershit’s idea what is going on. And it’s not ours. It’s not Antonia’s. And it sure as hell isn’t Titus’s. It’s Sevro’s, and I’m nearly certain he’s the only member in that tribe, unless he’s adopted wolves by now. It is hard to say if he has or hasn’t. Our House does not have family dinners. Though occasionally we’ll see him running along the hillsides at night in his wolfskin, looking, as Cassius put it best, “like some sort of hairy demonchild on hallucinogens.” And once Roque even heard something, not a wolf, howling in the shrouded highlands. Some days Sevro walks around all normalish—insulting everything that moves, except for Quinn. He makes an exception for her, delivering meats and edible mushrooms instead of insults. I think he’s sweet on her even though she’s sweet on Cassius.

We ask her to tell us stories about him, but she won’t. She’s loyal, and maybe that’s why she reminds me of home. She’s always telling good stories, most all of them certainly gilded lies. A life spark is in her, just like the one that was in my wife. She is the last of us to call Goblin “Sevro.” She’s also the only one who knows where he lives. Even with all our scouting, we can’t find a trace of him. For all I know, he’s out taking scalps beyond the highlands. I know Titus has sent scouts to stalk him, but I don’t think they are successful. They can’t even follow me. I know that rubs Titus raw.

“I think he’s wanking off in the bushes,” Cassius chuckles. “Just waiting for us to all kill each other.”

It’s when Lea comes limping back to the castle that Roque seeks Cassius and me out.

“They beat her,” he says. “Not bad, but they kicked her in the stomach and took her day’s labor.”

“Who?” Cassius bristles. “Who’s the slagger?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is they are hungry. So stop playing at an eye for an eye. This can’t go on,” Roque says. “Titus’s boys are starving. What do you expect they’d do? Hell, the big brute is hunting Goblin because he needs fire and food. If we just give that to him, we can unite the House, maintain civility. Maybe even Antonia will bring her tribe to reason.”

“Antonia? Reason?” Cassius asks, guffawing.

“Even if that happens, Titus will still be the most powerful,” I say. “And that’s not the cure for anything.”

“Ah. Yes. That’s something you can’t abide, someone else having power. Fine then.” Roque tugs at his long hair. “Talk to Vixus or Pollux. Take away his captains if you must. But heal the House, Darrow. Otherwise, we’ll lose when another House comes knocking.”

On the sixth day I take his advice. Knowing Titus is out raiding, I risk seeking Vixus in the keep. Unfortunately, Titus returns earlier than expected.

“You’re looking lively and spry,” he says to me before I can find Vixus in the keep’s stone halls. He blocks my path with his large body—shoulders nearly spanning the width of the wall. I feel another in the hallway behind me. Vixus and two others. My stomach sinks a little. It was stupid to do this. “Where are you going, if I may ask?”

“I wanted to compare our scouting maps to the main map in the command room,” I lie, knowing I have a digislate in my pocket.

“Oh, you wanted to compare scouting maps to the main map… for the good of Mars, noble Darrow?”

“What other good is there?” I ask. “We are all on the same side, no?”

“Oh, we are on the same side,” he says. Titus booms an insincere laugh. “Vixus, if we are on the same side, don’t you think it would be best if we shared your little maps with one another?”

“It would be for the very best,” Vixus agrees. “Mushrooms. Maps. All the same.” So he assaulted little Lea. His eyes are dead. Like raven eyes.

“Yes. So I’ll take a look for you, Darrow.” Titus snatches the scouting maps from me. There’s nothing I can do to stop him.

“You’re welcome to them,” I say. “So long as you know there are enemy fires to the far east and likely enemies in the Greatwoods to the south. Raid all you like. Just don’t get caught with your pants down.”

Titus sniffs the air. He wasn’t listening to me.

“Since we are sharing, Darrow.” He sniffs again, closer to my neck. “Perhaps you’ll share with us why you smell like woodsmoke.”

I stiffen, not knowing what to do.

“Look at him squirm. Look at him weave a lie.” Titus’s voice is all disgust. “I can smell your deceit. Smell the lies dripping from you like sweat.”

“Like a woman in heat,” Pollux says sardonically. He shrugs apologetically at me.

“Disgusting,” Vixus sneers. “He’s a vile thing. A wretched, womanish thing.” I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to turn him on Titus.

“You’re a little parasite,” Titus continues. “Nibbling away at morale because you will not come to heel; waiting for my noble boys and girls to starve.” They’re closing in on me from behind, from the sides. Titus is huge. Pollux and Vixus are cruel, nearly as big as me. “You’re a wretched creature. A worm in our spine.”

I shrug casually, trying to let them think I’m not worried.

“We can fix this,” I say.

“Oh?” Titus asks.

“The solution is simple, big man,” I counsel. “Bring your boys and girls home. Stop raiding Ceres every day before some other House comes in and slaughters you all. Then we’ll talk about fire. And about food.”

“You think you can tell us what to do, Darrow? That the thrust of it?” Vixus asks. “Think you’re better because you scored higher on a stupid little test? Because the Proctors chose you first?”

“He does,” Titus chuckles. “He thinks he deserves Primus.”

Vixus’s hawkish face leans close to mine, lips sneering each word. Handsome in repose, his lips peel back cruelly now, and his breath stinks as he looks me over, measuring me and trying to make me think he’s not impressed. He snorts a contemptuous laugh. I see him shifting his head to spit on my face. I let him. The glob of phlegm hits and drips slowly down my cheek toward my lips.

Titus watches with a wolfish smile. His eyes glimmer; Vixus looks to him for encouragement. Pollux comes closer.

“You’re a pampered little prick,” Vixus says. His nose nearly brushes mine. “So that’s what I’m gonna take from you, goodman—your little prick.”

“Or you could let me leave,” I say. “You seem to be blocking the door.”

“Oho!” he laughs, looking at his master. “He’s trying to show he’s not afraid, Titus. Trying to avoid a fight.” He looks as me with those golden, dead eyes. “I’ve broken uppity boys like you in the dueling clubs a thousand times.”

“You have?” I ask incredulously.

“Broken them like twigs. And then taken their girls for sport. What embarrassments I’ve made them in front of their fathers. What weeping messes I make of boys like you.”

“Oh, Vixus,” I say with a sigh, keeping the tremble of anger and fear out of my voice. “Vixus, Vixus, Vixus. There are no boys like me.”

I look back at Titus to make sure our eyes are joined when I casually, as if I were dancing, loop my Helldiver hand around and slam it into the side of Vixus’s neck at the jugular with the force of a sledgehammer strike. It ruins him, yet I hit him with an elbow, a knee, my other hand, as he falls. Had his legs been anchored better, the first strike might have snapped his neck in half. Instead, he cartwheels sideways in the low gravity, going horizontal and shuddering from my raining blows as he hits the ground. His eyes go blank. Fear rises in my belly. My body is so strong.

Titus and the others are too startled by the sudden violence to stop me as I spin past their outstretched hands and run down the halls.

I did not kill him.

I did not kill him.

24
Titus’s War

I did not kill Vixus. But I killed the chance of uniting the House. I sprint down the keep’s winding stairwells. Shouts behind me. I pass Titus’s lounging students; they’re sharing bits of raw fish they managed to spear from the river. They could trip me if they knew what I’ve done. Two girls watch me go by and, hearing their leaders shouts, are too late in moving. I’m past their hands, past the keep’s lower gatehouse and into the main square of the castle.

“Cassius!” I call up at the gatehouse to the castle where my men sleep. “Cassius!” He peeks his head out the window and sees my face.

“Oh. Shit. Roque!” he shouts. “It happened! Raise the Dregs!”

Three of Titus’s boys and one of his girls chase after me across the courtyard. They’re slower than me, but another is coming from her post on the wall to cut me off, Cassandra. Her short hair jingles with bits of metal she’s woven in. Effortlessly, she hops down the eight meters from the parapet, an axe in hand, and races to intersect my path before I reach the stairs. Her golden wolf ring glimmers in the ebbing light. She’s a beautiful sight.

Then my entire tribe pours out from the gatehouse. They bring their makeshift packs, their knives and the beating sticks we carved from felled branches taken from our woods. But they do not set toward me. They are bright, so they crank open the huge double gates that separate the castle from the long sloping path leading down to the glen. Mist seeps through the open gate and they disappear into the murk. Only Quinn is left behind.

Quinn, the fastest of Mars. She bounds along the cobblestone like a gazelle, coming to my aid. Her beating stick twirls in the air. Cassandra doesn’t see her. A long golden ponytail flops in the chill night air as Quinn winds up, a smile on her face, and blindsides Cassandra from the flank, hitting her full-force in the knee with her beating stick. The crack of wood on strong Gold bone is loud. So is Cassandra’s scream. Her leg doesn’t break, but she flips onto the cobblestone. Quinn does not slow her stride. She swoops in beside me, and together we leave Titus’s pack behind.

We catch up with the others in the bowl of the glen. Setting across the rugged hills, we aim toward our northern fort in the deep mist-shrouded highlands. Vapor clings to our hair, dripping off in pearls. We reach the fort well past midnight. It is a cavernous, barren tower that leans over a ravine like a drunken wizard. Lichen covers the thick gray stone. Mist swaddles its parapets and we make our first meal of the birds in the eaves of the single tower. Some escape. I hear their wings in the dark night. Our civil war has begun.

Unfortunately, Titus is not a stupid enemy. He does not come for us as we thought he would. I had hoped he would come try and lay siege to our northfort, that his army would see our fires inside the stone walls and smell the meat as it sizzled in fat. The sheep we gathered earlier would have lasted us weeks, months if we had water. We could have feasted every night. They would have broken then. They would have left Titus behind. But Titus knows of my weapon, fire, so he avoids us so that his boys and girls cannot see what luxuries we have.

He does not let his tribe alone long enough to think. Frenzy, war, numb the sense in man. So they raid House Ceres from the sixth day on, and he creates trophies for acts of bravery and violence, giving boys and girls marks in blood on their cheeks that they bear proudly. We slink along watching their war parties from the brush and the tall grasses of the plains. Sometimes we gain a vantage on the southern highland peaks near Phobos. From there we witness the siege of House Ceres.

Around House Ceres, the smoke rises in a sullen crown. Apple trees are hewn down. Horses crippled or stolen. Titus’s raiders even lasso a torch from one of the Ceres ramparts in an attempt to bring fire to Mars’s castle. Ceres horsemen ride them down with pails of water before they reach home. Titus shrieks in rage when this happens and the Ceres horses fly by, dashing the flame with water before circling home. With his best soldier, the raspy Pollux, he upends one of the horses with a tree branch fashioned like a pike. The rider spills from the saddle and Pollux is on her. They take two more slaves that day.

It is on our eighth day in the Institute that I watch the siege with Cassius and Roque from the highlands. Today, Titus rides the captured horse beneath the wall of House Ceres with a lasso, daring their archers to shoot their arrows at him and his horse. One poor girl leans her head out to get a better angle with her bow. She draws the arrow back to her ear, aims, and just before she is about to loose the arrow, Titus hurls his lasso upward. It flails through the air. She jerks back. Not fast enough. The lasso loops her neck and Titus kicks his horse away from the wall, tightening the lasso. Her friends scramble to grab her. They hold tight but are forced to let go before her neck snaps.

Her friend’s screams echo across the plains as she’s jerked violently down from the top of the wall and dragged by Titus back to his cheering followers. There, Cassandra kicks the girl to her knees and enslaves her with our standard. The flames from the burning crops lick up into the twilight where several Proctors hover with flagons of wine and a tray of some rare delicacy.

“And violent hearts set harshest flame,” Roque murmurs from his knee.

“He’s bold,” I say deferentially, “and he likes this.” His eyes sparkled when I struck Vixus in the throat. Cassius nods along. “Too much.”

“He is lethal,” Cassius agrees, but he means something different. I look over at him. There’s a raw edge to his voice. “And he’s a liar.”

“Is he?” I ask.

“He didn’t kill Priam.”

Roque becomes quiet. Smaller than us, he seems a child as he remains on a knee. His long hair is held in a ponytail. Dirt crusts his nails, which scrabble in tying his shoes as he looks up.

“He didn’t kill Priam,” Cassius repeats. The wind moans over the hills behind us. Night comes slow today. Cassius’s cheeks sink into shadow; still, he’s handsome. “They wouldn’t have put Priam with a monster like Titus. Priam’s a leader, not a warlord. They’d put Priam with someone easy like one of our Dregs.”

I know where Cassius is going with this. It’s in the way he watches Titus; the coldness in his eyes reminds me of a pitviper’s gaze as it follows its prey. My insides turn sour as I do it, but I lead Cassius in the direction he seems to want to go, inviting him to bite. Roque tilts his head at me, noticing something strange in my interaction with Cassius.

“And they would give Titus someone else,” I say.

“Someone else,” Cassius repeats, nodding.

Julian, he is thinking. He doesn’t say it. Neither do I. Better to let it fester in his mind. Let my friend think our enemy killed his brother. This is a way out.

“Blood begets blood begets blood begets blood…” Roque whispers words into the wind, which carry themselves west toward the long plain and toward the flames that dance in the low horizon. Beyond, the mountains hunker cold and dark. Snow already gathers on their peaks. It’s a sight to steal one’s breath, yet Roque’s eyes never leave my face.

I find it a small pleasure that Titus’s slaves are not very effective allies for him. Far from being indoctrinated as thoroughly as a Red might be, these newly made slaves are stubborn creatures. They follow orders or risk being labeled Shamed after graduation. But they purposefully never do more or less than he demands; it is their act of rebellion. They fight where he tells them to fight, whom he tells them to fight, even when they should retreat. They gather the berries he shows them, even if they know they are poisonous, and pile stones till the pile falls over. But if there is an open gate leading to the enemy’s fortress and Titus doesn’t tell them to go into it, they’ll stand there and pick their butts.

Despite the addition of slaves and the razing of Ceres’s crops and orchards, Titus’s force, which is quite sound at violence, is pitiful when they attempt to do anything else. His men empty their bowels in shallow latrines or behind trees or in the river in an attempt to poison the students of House Ceres. One of his girls even falls in after emptying her bowels into the water. She flails around in her own waste. It’s a scene of comedy, but laughter has become seldom except from the students of Ceres. They sit behind their high walls and catch fish from the river and eat breads from their ovens and honey from their apiaries.

In response to the laughter, Titus drags one of the male slaves up in front of the gate. The slave is a tall one with a long nose and a mischievous smile meant for the ladies. He thinks this is all a game till Titus cuts off one of his ears. Then he cries for his mother like a young child.

The Proctors, even House Ceres’s, do not stop the violence. They watch from the sky in twos and threes, floating about as medBots whine down from Olympus to cauterize a wound or treat severe head trauma.

On the twentieth morning of the Institute, the defenders throw a basket of bread loaves down as Titus’s men attempt to batter in the tall gate with a felled tree. The besiegers end up fighting each other for the food only to find that the bread was baked around razor blades. The screams last till the afternoon.

Titus’s reply comes just before night falls. With five newly minted slaves, including the male with the missing ear, he approaches the gate till he’s near a mile off. He parades in front of the slaves, holding four long sticks in his hand. These he gives to each of the slaves except the girl he pulled down from the ramparts with a lasso.

With a low bow to the Ceres gate, he waves a hand and orders the slaves to commence beating the girl. Like Titus, she is tall and powerful, so it is difficult to pity her. At first.

The slaves hit the girl gingerly with the initial swings. Then Titus reminds them of the shame that will forever mark their names if they do not obey; they swing harder; they aim for the girl’s golden head. They hit her and hit her till her shouts have long faded and blood mats her blonde hair. When Titus grows bored, he drags the wounded girl back to his camp by her hair. She slides limply over the earth.

We watch from our place in the highlands, and it takes Lea and Quinn both to stop Cassius from sprinting down into the plains. The girl will live, I tell him. The sticks are all show. Roque spits bitterly into the grass and reaches for Lea’s hand. It’s odd seeing her give him strength.

The next morning, we discover that Titus’s reply did not stop with the beating. After we retired to our castle, Titus snuck back in the dead of night to hide the girl directly in front of the Ceres gate underneath a thick blanket of grass, gagged and tied. Then he had one of his female followers shriek during the night to pretend she was the slave at the camp. She screamed of rape and violations.

Maybe the captured Ceres girl thought she was safe under the grass. Maybe she thought the Proctors would save her and she would go home to mother and father, home to her equestrian lessons, home to her puppies and her books. But in the early dark of morning she is trampled as riders, enraged by the fake screams, gallop from the Ceres fortress to rescue her from Titus’s makeshift camp. They only learn of their folly when they hear the medBots descending behind them to carry her broken body up to Olympus.

She never returns. Still the Proctors do not interfere. I’m not sure why they even exist.

I miss home. Lykos, of course, but also the place where I was safe with Dancer, Matteo, and Harmony.

Soon there are no more slaves to take. House Ceres does not come out after dark anymore, and their high walls are guarded without flames. The trees outside the wall have all been cut down, but there are crops and further orchards inside their long walls. Bread still bakes and the river still flows within their ramparts. Titus can do nothing but savage their land and steal what remains of their apples. Most have been sown with needles and stingers from wasps. Titus has failed. And so, as do those of any tyrant after a failed war, his eyes turn inward.

25
Tribal War

Thirty days into the Institute and I’ve not seen evidence of another enemy House except for the smoke signs of distant fires. House Ceres’s soldiers roam the eastern fringes of our land. They ride with impunity now that Titus’s tribe has retreated back into our castle. Castle. No. It has become a hovel.

I come upon it with Roque in the early morning. Fog still clings to the four spires and light struggles to penetrate the dreary sky of our highland climate. Sounds from inside the stonewalls echo into the quiet morning like coins rattling about in a tin can. Titus’s voice. He’s cursing at his tribesmen to get up. Apparently few do. Someone tells him to go slag himself, and it’s little wonder. The bunk beds are the only real amenity the castle has, no doubt put there to encourage slothfulness. My tribe has no such amenities; we sleep on stone curled next to one another around our crackling fires. Oh, what I’d give for a bed again.

Cassius and I slink along the slanted dirt road that leads to the gatehouse. We can hardly even see it, the fog is so thick. More sounds from inside. It seems like the slaves are up. I hear coughs, grumbling, and a few shouts. A long creak and the clatter of chains means the gate is opening. Cassius pulls me off to the side of the road, tucking us into the mist as the slaves shuffle past. Their faces are pallid in the low light. Hollows make homes in their sunken cheeks, and their hair has been dirtied. Mud caked skin around their Sigils. He passes near enough to me that I smell his body odor. I stiffen suddenly, worried he will again smell the smoke on me, but he doesn’t. Beside me, Cassius is quiet, yet I feel his anger.

We sneak back down the path and watch the slaves toil from the relative safety of the woods. They are not Aureates as they scrub shit and scavenge for berries in the sharp thistlebushes. One or two are missing ears. Vixus, recovered from my attack except for a huge purple bruise on his neck, walks around slapping at them with a long stick. If the test is to unite a fractious House, I am failing.

As early morning fades and appetites change with the arrival of warm sunshine, Cassius and I hear a sound that makes our skin prickle. Screams. Screams from the high tower of Mars. They are a particular sort, a kind to darken the spirits.

When I was a boy in Lykos, my mother was serving me soup at our stone family table the night of a Laureltide. It was a year after my father died. Kieran and Leanna sat with me, neither yet older than ten. A single light unit flickered on and off above the table, so Mum was shrouded in darkness except her arm from the elbow down. Then came the scream, muffled by distance and the twists of our cavern township. I still see how the broth quivered in the ladle, how my mother’s hand shook when she heard it. Screams. Not of pain, but of horror.

“What he’s doing to the girls…,” Cassius hisses to me as we slink away from the castle as night descends. “He’s a beast.”

“This is war,” I say, though the words sound hollow even in my own ears.

“It’s school!” he reminds me. “What if Titus did this to our girls? To Lea… to Quinn?”

I say nothing.

“We would kill him,” Cassius answers for me. “We would kill him, cut his prick off and shove it in his mouth.” And I know he’s also thinking of what Titus must have done to Julian.

Despite Cassius’s mutterings, I take his arm and pull him away from the castle. The gates are locked against the night. There is nothing we can do. I feel helpless again. Helpless as when Ugly Dan took Eo from me. But I am different now. My hands turn to fists. I am more than I was then.

On our way back to our northfort, we see a glimmer in the air. Golden gravBoots shimmer as Fitchner descends. He’s chewing gum and holds his heart when he sees our evil glances.

“Whatever did I do, young friends, to earn such glares?”

“He’s treating the girls like animals!” Cassius seethes. Veins in his neck stand out. “They are Golds and he is treating them like dogs, like Pinks.”

“If he is treating them like Pinks, then it is because they merited no better in this little world than Pinks do in our big world.”

“You’re joking.” Cassius can’t understand. “They are Golds, not Pinks. He’s a monster.”

“Then prove you’re a man and stop him,” Fitchner says. “As long as he’s not murdering them one by one, it is not our concern. All wounds heal. Even these.”

“That’s a lie,” I tell him. I’ll never be healed of Eo. That pain will last forever. “Some things do not fade. Some things can never be made right.”

“Yet we do nothing because he has more fighters,” Cassius spits.

An idea sweeps over me. “We can fix that.”

Cassius turns to me. He hears the deadness in my voice just as I see it in his eyes when he speaks of Titus. That’s a peculiar thing we share. We’re made of fire and ice—though I am not sure which of us is ice and which is fire. Nevertheless, extremes rule us more than we’d like; that is why we are of Mars.

“You have a plan,” Cassius says.

I nod coldly.

Fitchner watches us two and he grins. “About gorydamn time.”

The plan starts with a concession only someone once a husband could make. Cassius cannot stop laughing when I tell him the details. Even Quinn snorts a laugh the next morning. Then she’s off, running like a deer to Deimos Tower to bring my formal apology to Antonia. She’s to meet me with Antonia’s response at one of our supply caches near the Furor River, north of the castle.

Cassius guards our new fort with the remainder of our tribe, in case Titus tries to attack while Roque and I go to the supply cache during the day. Quinn does not come. Dusk does. Despite the dark, we trace the path she would have taken from Deimos Tower. We go till we reach the tower itself, which sits in the low hills surrounded by thick woods. Five of Titus’s men lounge around its base. Roque grabs me and pulls me down into the woods’ brush. He points to a tree fifty meters distant where Vixus sits hidden in wait on a high branch. Did they catch Quinn? No, she’s too fast to be caught. Did someone betray us?

We return to our fort by early morning. I’m sure I’ve been more tired, but I can’t remember when. Blisters ruin my feet despite the fitted shoes, and my neck peels from long days in the sun. Something is wrong.

Lea meets me by the fort’s gate. She hugs Roque and looks up at me like I’m her father or something. She is not her usual timid self. Her birdlike body shakes not from fear, but anger.

“You have to kill that piece of filth, Darrow. You have to cut his slagging balls off.”

Titus. “What happened?” I look around. “Lea. Where is Cassius?”

She tells me.

Titus captured Quinn as she was on her way back from the tower. They beat her. Then Titus sent one of her ears here. It was meant for me. They thought Quinn was my girl, and Titus thinks he knows my temper. They got the reaction they wanted, just not from me.

Cassius was on watch and as the others slept he snuck away to the castle to challenge Titus. Somehow the brilliant young man was arrogant enough to think hundreds of years of Aureate honor and tradition would survive the sickness that has consumed Titus’s tribe in only a few weeks. The Imperator’s son was wrong. And he is also unused to having his heritage be of such little consequence. In the real world, he would have been safe. In this small one, he is not.

“But he’s alive,” I say.

“Yeah, I’m alive, you Pixie!” Cassius stumbles shirtless out of the fort.

“Cassius!” Roque gasps. His face pales suddenly.

Cassius’s left eye is swollen shut. Lips are split. Ribs purple as grapes. His other eye is bloody. Three dislocated fingers shoot out like tree roots, and his shoulder is odd. The others stare at him with such sadness. Cassius was the Imperator’s boy—their shining knight. And now his body is a ruin, and the looks upon their faces, the pallid cast to their skin, tell me that they have never before seen someone beautiful mutilated.

I have.

He smells like piss.

He tries to play it off as some lark. “They beat the slag out of me when I challenged him. Hit me with a shovel on the side of the head. Then stood around and had themselves a circle piss. Then they tied me up in that stinkhole keep, but Pollux set me free, like a good lad, and he’s agreed to open the gate if we need it done.”

“I didn’t think you were so stupid,” I say.

“Of course he is, he wants to be one of the Sovereign’s knights,” Roque mutters. “And all they do is duel.” He shakes his long hair. Dirt crusts the leather band that holds it in a ponytail. “You should have waited for us.”

“What’s done is done,” I say. “We go ahead with the plan.”

“Fine,” Cassius snorts. “But when the time comes, Titus is mine.”

26
Mustang

Part of Cassius is gone. That invincible boy I first met is somehow different. The humiliation changed him. I can’t decide how, though, as I straighten his fingers and help him fix his shoulder. He falls down from the pain.

“Thank you, brother,” he says to me, and cups the side of my head to help himself up. It is the first time he says it. “I failed the test.” I don’t disagree with him. “I went in there like a plum fool. If this were anywhere else, they would have killed me.”

“Least it didn’t cost you your life,” I say.

Cassius chuckles. “Just my pride.”

“Good. Something you have in abundance,” Roque says with a smile.

“We have to get her back.” Cassius’s own grimace fades as he looks at Roque, then at me. “Quinn. We have to get her back before he takes her up to his tower.”

“We will.” We bloody will.

Cassius and I go east according to my plan, farther than we have gone before. We stay to the northern highlands, but we make sure we walk along the high crests visible to the open plains below. East and east, our long legs taking us fast and far.

“A rider to the southeast,” I say. Cassius doesn’t look.

We pass through a humid glen where a dark loch offers us the chance to catch a drink across from a family of deerling. Mud covers our legs. Bugs flit over the cold water. The earth feels good between my fingers as I bend to drink. I dunk my head and join Cassius in eating some of our aging lamb. It needs salt. My belly cramps from all the protein.

“How far east of the castle do you reckon we are?” I ask Cassius, pointing behind him.

“Maybe twenty klicks. Hard to peg it. Feels farther but my legs are just tired.” He straightens and looks where I point. “Ah. Got it.”

A girl on a dappled mustang watches us from the edge of the glen. She has a long covered bar tied to her saddle. Can’t make out her House, but I have seen her before. I remember her like it was yesterday. The girl who called me a Pixie when I fell off that pony Matteo put me on.

“I want her horse to ride back,” Cassius tells me. He can’t see out his left eye but his bravado is back, a little too forcefully. “Hey, darling!” he calls. “Shit, that hurts the ribs. Prime ride! What House are you?”

I’m worried about this.

The girl rides to within ten meters, but she has the sigils on sleeve and neck covered with two lengths of sewn cloth. Her face is streaked with three diagonal lines of blue berry juice mixed with animal fat. We don’t know if she is from Ceres. I hope not. She could be from the southern woods, from the east, from the far northeastern highlands even.

“Lo, Mars,” she says smugly, looking at the sigil on our jackets.

Cassius bows pathetically. I don’t bother.

“Well, this is swell.” I kick a stone with my shoe. “Lo… Mustang. Nice sigil. And horse.” I let her know having a horse is something rare.

She is small, delicate. Her smile is not. It mocks us. “What are you boys about in the hinterlands? Reaping grain?”

I pat my slingBlade. “We have enough back home.” I gesture south of our castle.

She suppresses a laugh at my feeble lie.

“Sure you do.”

“I will be even with you.” Cassius forces his battered face into a smile. “You are stunningly beautiful. You must be from Venus. Hit me with whatever is under that cloth on your saddle and take me back to your fortress. I’ll be your Pink if you promise not to share me and to keep me warm every night.” He takes an unsteady step forward, offers a wing. “And every morning.” Her mustang takes four back till he gives up trying to steal her horse.

“Well, aren’t you the charmer, handsome. And by that pitchfork in your hand, you must be a prime fighter too.” She bats her eyes.

Cassius puffs out his chest in agreement.

She waits for him to understand.

Then he frowns.

“Yup. Uh-oh. You see, we didn’t have any tools in our stronghold except those pertaining to our deity, soooo you must have encountered House Ceres already.” She leans forward in the saddle sardonically. “You don’t have crops. You just fought those who do, and you don’t have any better weapons, clearly, or you would be carrying them with you. So Ceres is in these parts as well. Likely in the lowlands near the woods for crops. Or near that big river everyone is talking about.”

She’s all laughing eyes and a smirking mouth in a face shaped like a heart. Long hair so golden it sparkles in the sun flows down her back in braids.

“So you are in the woods?” she asks. “North in the highlands, probably. Oh, this is fun! How bad are your weapons? You clearly don’t have horses. What a poor House.”

“Slag,” Cassius makes a point of saying.

“You seem pretty proud of yourself.” I put my slingBlade on my shoulder.

She raises a hand and wiggles it back and forth. “Sort of. Sort of. More proud than Handsome there should be. He’s full of tells.” I shift my weight on my toes to see if she notices. She moves her horse back. “Now, now, Reaper, are you going to try and get in my saddle too?”

“Just trying to knock you out of it, Mustang.”

“Fancy a roll in the mud, do we? Well, how about I promise to let you up here with me if you give me more clues as to where your castle squats? Towers? Sprawls? I can be a kind master.”

She looks me up and down playfully. Her eyes sparkle like a fox’s might. This is still a game to her, which means her House is a civil place. I’m envious as I examine her in kind. Cassius didn’t lie; she is something to look at. But I’d rather knock her off her mustang. My feet are tired and we’re playing a dangerous game.

“What Draft number were you?” I ask, wishing I’d paid more attention.

“Higher than you, Reaper. I remember Mercury wanted you something awful, but his Drafters wouldn’t let him pick you in the first round. Something about your rage metric.”

“You were higher than me? So you’re not Mercury then, because they chose a boy instead of me, and you’re not a Jupiter, because they took a gorydamn monstrous kid.” I try to remember who else was chosen before me, but I can’t, so I smile. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so vain. Then I wouldn’t know what Draft you were.”

I notice the knife under her black tunic, but I still can’t remember her from the Draft. Wasn’t paying attention. Cassius should have remembered her the way he looks at girls, but maybe he can only think of Quinn and her missing ear.

Our job is done. We can leave Mustang. She’s smart enough to figure out the rest. But leaving might be a problem without a horse, and I don’t think Mustang really needs hers.

I feign boredom. Cassius keeps an eye on the hills around. Then I start suddenly as if I’ve noticed something. I whisper “Snake” into his ear while looking at the horse’s front hooves. He looks too, and at this point, the girl’s movement is involuntary. Even as she realizes it’s a trick, she leans forward to peer at the hooves. I lunge to close the ten-meter gap. I’m fast. So is she, but she’s just a hair off balance and has to lean back in order to jerk her horse away. It scrambles back in the mud. I dive for her and my strong right hand grips her long braids just as the horse darts away. I try to jerk her out of the saddle, but she’s all hellfire.

I’m left with a handful of coiled gold. The mustang is off and the girl laughs and curses about her hair. Then Cassius’s pitchfork wobbles through the air and trips the horse. Girl and beast go down in the muddy grass.

“Dammit, Cassius!” I shout.

“Sorry!”

“You might have killed her!”

“I know! I know! Sorry!”

I run to see if she’s broken her neck. That would ruin everything. She’s not moving. I lean in to feel her pulse and sense a blade graze my groin. My hand is already there to twist her wrist away. I take the knife and pin her down.

“I knew you wanted to roll me in the mud.” Her lips smirk. Then they purse as if she wants a kiss. I recoil. Instead, she whistles and the plan becomes a bit more complicated.

I hear hooves.

Everyone has bloodydamn horses but us.

The girl winks and I force the cloth from her sigil. House Minerva. Greeks would have called it Athena. Of course. Seventeen horses tear down the glen from the crest of the hill. Their riders have stunpikes. Where the hell did they get stunpikes?

“Time to run, Reaper,” Mustang taunts. “My army comes.”

There’s no running. Cassius dives into the loch. I jump off Mustang, run after him through the mud, and throw myself over the bank to join him in the water. I cannot swim, but I learn quickly.

The horsemen of House Minerva taunt Cassius and me as we tread water in the center of the small loch. It’s summer but the water is cold and deep. Dusk is coming. My limbs are numb. The Minervans still circle the lake, waiting for us to tire. We won’t. I had three of the durobags in my pockets. I blow them full of air and give two to Cassius, keeping one for myself. They help us float, and since none of the Minervans seem intent on swimming to meet us, we’re safe for the time being.

“Roque should have lit it by now,” I tell Cassius some hours into our swim. He’s in bad shape from his wounds and the cold.

“Roque will light it. Faith… goodman… faith.”

“We’re also supposed to be almost home.”

“Well, it’s still going better than my plan did.”

“You look bored, Mustang!” I shout out with chattering teeth. “Come in for a swim.”

“And get hypothermia? I’m not stupid. I’m in Minerva, not Mars, remember!” She laughs from the shore. “I’d rather warm myself by your castle’s hearth. See?” She points behind us and speaks quickly to three tall boys, one of whom looks as big as an Obsidian—shoulders like a huge thunderhead.

A thick column of smoke rises in the distance.

Finally.

“How the slag did those pricks pass the test?” I ask loudly. “They’ve given our castle away.”

“If we get back, I’m going to drown them in their own piss,” Cassius replies even louder. “Except for Antonia. She’s too pretty for that.”

Our teeth chatter.

The eighteen raiders think House Mars is stupid, horseless, and unprepared.

“Reaper, Handsome, I must leave you now!” Mustang calls to us. “Try not to drown before I return with your standard. You can be my pretty bodyguards. And you can have matching hats! But we’ll have to teach you to think better!”

She gallops away with fifteen riders, the huge Gold reining his horse in beside hers like some sort of colossal shadow. Her followers whoop as they ride. She also leaves us company. Two horsemen with stunpikes. Our farming tools lie in the mud on the shore.

“M-mustang is a s-sexp-p-pot,” Cassius manages to shiver out.

“She’s s-s-scary.”

“R-r-reminds m-m-me of my m-mother.”

“S-s-something is wrong w-with y-ou.”

He nods in agreement. “So… the p-plan is sort of w-w-working.”

If we can get out of the loch without being captured.

Night falls in earnest, and with the darkness come the howls of the wolves in the misty highlands. We begin to sink as our durobags leak air from small stress holes. We might have had a chance to slink away in the night, but the remaining Minervans are not lazily sitting around a fire. They stalk through the darkness so that we never even know where they are. Why can’t they be stupidly sitting in their castle infighting like our fellows?

I’m going to be a slave again. Maybe not a real slave, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t lose. I cannot lose. Eo will have died for nothing if I let myself sink here, if I let my plan fail. Yet I do not know how to beat my enemies. They are clever and the odds are stacked heavily against me. Eo’s dream sinks with me into the darkness of the loch, and I’m about to swim to shore, regardless the outcome, when something spooks the horses.

Then a scream slices across the water.

Fear trickles down my spine as something howls. It is not a wolf. It can’t be what I think it is. Blue light flashes as a stunpike flails in the air. The boy screams another curse. A knife got him. Someone runs to his aid and electricity flares blue again. I see a black wolf standing over one body as another falls. Darkness again. Silence, then the mournful whine of medBots descending from Olympus.

I hear a familiar voice.

“Clear now. Come out of the water, fishies.”

We paddle to shore and pant in the mud. Mild hypothermia has set in. It won’t kill us but my fingers are still slow as mud squishes between them. My body shakes like a drillBoy at work.

“Goblin, you psychopath. Is that you?” I call.

The fourth tribe slides out of the darkness. He’s wearing the pelt of the wolf he killed. It covers his head to his shins. Damn small kid. The gold of his black fatigues is coated in mud. So’s his face.

Cassius crawls from his knees to clasp Sevro in a hug. “Oh, y-you are b-beautiful, Goblin. B-beautiful, beautiful b-b-oy. And smelly.”

“He been nibbling on mushrooms?” Goblin asks over Cassius’s shoulders. “Stop touching me, you Pixie.” He pushes Cassius away, looking embarrassed.

“Did you k-kill these t-two?” I ask, shivering. I bend over them and take off their dry clothing to exchange for my own. I feel pulses.

“No.” Sevro cocks his head at me. “Should I have?”

“W-w-why are you asking m-me like I’m your P-praetor?” I laugh. “You know what’s what.”

Sevro shrugs. “You’re like me.” He looks at Cassius with disdain. “And somehow still like him. So, should I kill them?” he asks casually.

Cassius and I share startled glances.

“N-n-no,” we agree just as the medBots arrive to take the Minervans away. He hurt them badly enough to end their time in the game.

“So what, p-p-pray tell, are you doing w-w-wandering ab-b-bout in a wolfsk-k-kin all the way out h-here?” Cassius asks.

“Roque said you lot would be out east,” Sevro replies curtly. “Plan is still a go, says he.”

“Hav-v-ve the Minervans arrived at the castle?” I ask.

Sevro spits in the grass. The twin moons cast eerie shadows over his dark face. “How the piss should I know? They passed me on the way. But you have no leverage, you know. It is a dead-end plan.” Is Sevro actually helping us? Of course his help begins with listing out our inadequacies. “If the Minervans get to the keep, they will destroy Titus and take our territory.”

“Yes. That is the point,” I say.

“They will also take our standard—”

“That’s a r-risk we have to take.”

“—so I stole the standard from the keep and buried it in the woods.”

I should have thought of that.

“You just stole it. Just like that.” Cassius starts laughing. “Crazy little sod. You’re prime mad. One hundredth pick. Prime mad.”

Sevro looks annoyed. Pleased. But annoyed. “Even then, we cannot guarantee they leave our territory.”

“Your sug-g-g-gestion?” I ask, still shivering but impatient. He could have helped us before.

“Get leverage to get them out after they do their job of taking Titus down, obviously.”

“Yes. Y-yes. I get it.” I shake off the last of my shivers. “But how?”

Sevro shrugs. “We’ll take Minerva’s standard.”

“W-wait,” Cassius says. “You know how to do that?”

Sevro snorts. “What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, you silky turd? Wanking off in the bushes?”

Cassius and I look at each other.

“Kind of,” I say.

“Yeah, actually,” Cassius agrees.

We ride the Minervan horses east of the highlands. I’m not a sound equestrian. Of course Cassius is, so I learn to clutch his bruised ribs very well. Our faces are painted with mud. It will look like shadow in the night, so they will see our horses, our pikes, our sigils, and will think us their own.

The Minervan castle lies in rolling country quilted with wildflowers and olive trees. The moons glimmer bright over the pitching landscape. Owls hoot in the gnarled branches above. As we reach their sprawling sandstone fortress, a voice challenges us from the rampart above the gate. Sevro is not very presentable in his wolfcloak, so he guards the escape.

“We found Mars,” I call up. “Oy! Open the damn gate.”

“Password,” the sentry demands lazily from the battlements.

“Bosombutthead!” I shout up. Sevro heard it last time he was here.

“Prime. Where’s Virginia and the raiders?” the sentry calls down.

Mustang?

“Took their standard, man! The pissers didn’t even have horses. We might still manage to take the castle!”

The sentry bites.

“Prime news! Virginia is a devil. June’s made supper. Fetch some in the kitchen and then join me, if you like. I’m bored and need to be entertained.”

The gate creaks open very, very slowly. I laugh when it finally parts enough for us to ride in abreast. Cassius and I aren’t even met by guards. Their castle is different—drier, cleaner, and less oppressive. They have gardens and olive trees that wend between the sandstone columns of the bottom level.

We hide in the shadows as two girls pass with cups of milk. They have no torches or fires an enemy can spot from the distance, only small candles. It makes it easy to slink about. Apparently the girls are pretty, because Cassius makes a face and pretends to follow them up the stairs.

After flashing me a smile, he sneaks toward the sounds of the kitchen as I look for their command room. I find it on the third level. Windows overlook the dark plain. In front of the windows lies Minerva’s atlas. A burning flag floats above my House’s castle. I don’t know what it means, but it can’t be good. Another fortress, House Diana’s, lies south of Minerva’s in the Greatwoods. Those are all that have been discovered.

They have their own score sheets to keep track of accomplishments. Someone named Pax seems a bloody nightmare. He’s taken eight slaves personally, and caused medBots to come down to fetch nine students, so I assume he’s the one that stood as tall as an Obsidian.

I don’t find their standard anywhere in the command room. Like us, they weren’t stupid enough to leave it just lying about. No problem, we’ll find it our own way. On cue, I smell Cassius’s smokefires seeping through the windows. What a pretty warroom they have. Much prettier than Mars’s.

I break everything.

And when I have ruined their map and am finished defacing a statue of Minerva, I use the axe I found to chop the name of Mars into their long, beautiful war table. I’m tempted to etch another House’s name into the debris to confuse them, but I want them to know who did this. This House is too put together, too ordered and level-headed. They have a leader, raiders, sentries (naïve ones), cooks, olive trees, warm milk, stunpikes, horses, honey, strategy. Minervans. Proud piggers. Let them feel a bit more like House Mars. Let them feel rage. Chaos.

Shouts come. Cassius’s fire spreads. A girl runs into the warroom. I nearly make her faint as I lift my axe. There’s no point in hurting her. We can’t take prisoners, not easily. So I pull out both the slingBlade and the stunpike. Mud on my face. My golden hair wild. I look a terror.

“Are you June?” I growl.

“N-no… why?”

“Can you cook?”

She laughs despite her fear. Three boys turn the corner. Two are thicker but shorter than me. I scream like a rage god. Oh, how they run.

“Enemies!” they scream. “Enemies!”

“They’re in the towers!” I roar to confuse them again and again as I descend the stairs. “The top levels! Everywhere! Too many! Dozens! Dozens! Mars is here! Mars has come!” Smoke spreads. So do their cries.

“Mars!” they shout. “Mars has come!”

A young man flashes past me. I grab his collar and throw him out a window into the courtyard below, scattering the Minervans massed there. I go to the kitchen. Cassius’s fire is not bad. Mostly grease and brush. A howling girl beats at it.

“June!” I call out. She turns into my stunpike and shudders as the electricity dumbs down her muscles. That’s how I steal their cook.

Cassius finds me running with June over my shoulder through their gardens.

“What the hell?”

“She’s a cook!” I explain.

He laughs so hard he can barely breathe.

Minervans fall into chaos, running from their barracks. They think the enemy is in their towers. They think their citadel is burning down. They think Mars has come in full force. Cassius pulls me along into their stables. Seven horses have been left behind. We steal six after tossing a candle into their hay stores and ride out the main gate as smoke and panic consumes the fortress. I don’t have the standard. Just as we planned. Sevro said there was a hidden back gate to the fortress. We wagered that someone very desperate to flee a fallen fortress would use it to escape, someone trying to protect the standard. We were right.

Sevro joins us two minutes later. He howls out from under his wolfcloak as he comes. Far behind, the enemy chases him on foot with stunpikes. Now they’re the ones without horses. And they’ve no chance to get back the owl standard that glitters in his muddy hands. The cook unconscious across my saddle, we ride under the starry night back to our battle-torn highlands, the three of us laughing, cheering, howling.

27
The House of Rage

We find Roque at Phobos Tower with Lea, Screwface, Clown, Thistle, Weed, and Pebble. We have eight horses—two stolen at the lake, six stolen in the castle. We add them to our plan. Cassius, Sevro, and I cross the bridge that spans the river Metas. An enemy scout bolts north to warn Mustang. Our other stolen horses, led by Antonia, follow once the scout is away, looping north. Roque, horseless, loops south.

My horse alone is not covered with mud. She is a bright mare. And I am a bright sight. I carry Minerva’s golden standard in my left hand. We could have hidden it. Could have kept it safe. But they need to know we have it, and even though Sevro stole it, he doesn’t want to carry it. He likes his curved knives too much. I think he whispers to them. And Cassius we need for other things besides carrying the standard. Plus, if he carried it, then he would look the leader. And that will not do.

Dead silence as we ride through our lowlands. Fog seeps around the trees. I cut through it. Cassius and Sevro ride to either side. I cannot see or hear them now, but wolves howl somewhere. Sevro howls back. I struggle to keep my seat as the mare spooks. I fall off twice. Cassius’s laughs come from the darkness. It’s hard to remember I’m doing all this for Eo, all this to start a rebellion. It feels like a game this night; in a way it is, because I’m finally beginning to have fun.

Our castle is taken. Firelight along its ramparts tells me this. The castle stands high above the glen on its hill, its torches making strange halos in the fog-quilted darkness. My horse’s hooves thump softly on wet grass as to my right the Metas gurgles like a sick child in the night. Cassius rides there but I cannot see him.

“Reaper!” Mustang shouts through the mist. Her voice is not playful. She’s forty meters off, near the base of the sloped road that leads to the castle. She leans forward, arms crossed over the pommel of her saddle. Six riders flank her. The rest must be garrisoning the castle. Otherwise I’d hear about it. I look at the boys behind her. Pax is so large that his pike looks like a scepter in his huge mitts.

“Lo, Mustang.”

“So, you didn’t drown. That would have been easier.” Her quick face is dark. “You are a vile breed, you know that?” She’s been inside the keep and she doesn’t have words for her anger. “Rape? Mutilation? Murder?” She spits.

“I did nothing,” I say. “And neither did the Proctors.”

“Yes. You did nothing. Yet now you have our standard and what? Handsome somewhere out there in the mist? Go ahead, pretend like you’re not their leader. Like you’re not responsible.”

“Titus is responsible.”

“The big bastard? Yes, Pax laid him low.” She gestures to the monster of a boy beside her. Pax’s hair is shorn short, his eyes small, chin like a heel with a dent in it. Beneath him, his horse looks like a dog. His bare arms are flesh stretched over boulders.

“I didn’t come to talk, Mustang.”

“Come to cut my ear off?” she sneers.

“No. Goblin did.”

Then one of her men slips screaming from his saddle.

“What the…,” a rider murmurs.

Behind them, knives already dripping, Sevro howls like a maniac. A half dozen other howls join his as Antonia and half her Phobos garrison ride from the north hills on the stolen mudblack steeds. They howl like mentals in the mist. Mustang’s soldiers wheel about. Sevro takes another one down. He doesn’t use stunpikes. MedBots scream through the sky, which is suddenly filled with Proctors. All of them have come to watch. Mercury trails behind the rest, carrying an armful of spirits, which he tosses to his fellows. Each of us peers up to watch their strange appearance; the horses continue to run. Time pauses.

“To the fray!” dark Apollo mocks from on high. His golden robes show he’s just risen from bed. “To the fray.”

Then chaos hits as Mustang shouts orders, strategy. Four more horsemen ride down the sloped road from the gate to support her troop. My turn. I slam Minerva’s standard upright into the earth and scream bloody murder. I kick my heels into my mare. She lurches forward, almost losing me. My body shudders as she pounds the moist earth with her hooves. My strong left hand grips the reins and I draw my slingBlade. I feel a Helldiver again when I howl.

The enemy scatters as they see me raging toward them. It is the rage that confuses them. It is the insanity of Sevro, the manic brutality of Mars. The horsemen scatter, except one. Pax jumps from his horse and sprints at me.

“Pax au Telemanus!” he screams, a titan possessed, foaming at the mouth. I dig my heels into my horse and howl. Then Pax tackles my horse. His shoulder hits my horse’s sternum. The beast screams. My world flips. I fly out of my saddle, over my horse’s head, and crash to the ground.

Dazed, I stumble to my knee in the hoof-churned field.

Madness consumes the field. Antonia’s force crashes into Mustang’s flank. They have primitive weapons, but their horses are shock enough. Several Minervans fly from the saddle. Others kick their mounts toward their abandoned standard, but Cassius appears out of the fog at a gallop and swipes the standard away to the south. Two enemies give chase, dividing their force. The other six soldiers from Antonia’s tower garrisons are waiting to ambush them in the woods, where the horses cannot gallop.

Reflexes make me duck as a pike sweeps toward my skull. I’m up with my slingBlade. I slash it at a wrist. Too slow. I move as if in a dance, remembering the thumping pattern my uncle taught me in the abandoned mines. The Reaping Dance carries my motions into one another like flowing water. I swoop the slingBlade into a kneecap. The Aureate bone does not break, but the force knocks the rider from the saddle. I spin sideways and strike again, and again, and sweep the hoof of a horse away, breaking a fetlock. The animal falls.

A different stunpike stabs at me. I avoid the point and rip it free with my Red hands and jam the electrocuting tip into another assailant’s horse’s belly. The beast falls. A mountain pushes it aside and runs at me. Pax. In case I am an idiot, he roars his name at me. His parents bred him to lead Obsidian landing parties into hull breaches.

“Pax au Telemanus!” He beats his huge pike against his chest and hits puffy-haired Clown so hard, my friend literally flies backward. “Pax au Telemanus.”

“Is a pricklicker!” I mock.

Then a horse’s flank thumps into my back and I stumble toward the monstrous boy. I’m doomed. He could have gotten me with his pike. Instead, he hugs me. It’s like being embraced by a golden bear that keeps screaming its own damn name. My back cracks. Mothermercy. He’s squeezing my skull. My shoulder aches. Bloodyhell. I can’t breathe. I’ve never met a force like this. Dear God. He’s a bloodydamn titan. But someone is howling. Dozens of howls. Back popping.

Pax roars his personal victory. “I have your captain! I piss on you, Mars! Pax au Telemanus has slagged your captain! Pax au Telemanus!”

My vision flickers black and fades. But the rage in me does not.

I roar out one last bit of wrath before I faint. It’s cheap. Pax is honorable. I still mash his grapes flat with my knee. I make sure to get both as many times as I can. One. Two. Three. Four. He gawps and collapses. I faint atop him in the mud to the sound of Proctors cheering.

Sevro tells me the story as he picks through the pockets of our prisoners after the battle. After Pax and I finished one another off, Roque sallied into the glen with Lea and my tribe. Mustang, the crafty girl, escaped into the castle and manages yet to hold it with six fighters. All the prisoners of Mars she captured won’t be hers until she touches them with the tip of her standard. Fat chance. We have eleven of her men and Roque digs up our standard to make them our slaves. We could besiege our own castle—there’s no storming its high walls—but Ceres or the rest of Minerva could come at any time. If they do, Cassius is supposed to ride to give Ceres Minerva’s standard. It also keeps him away while I cement my position as leader.

Roque and Antonia come with me to negotiate with Mustang at the gate. I limp up and favor a cracked rib. It hurts to breathe. Roque takes a step back so that I am most prominent when we reach the gate itself. Antonia wrinkles her nose and eventually does the same. Mustang is bloody from the skirmish and I can’t find a smile on her pretty face.

“The Proctors have been watching all of this,” she says scathingly. “They’ve seen what that happened in that… place. Everything—”

“Was done by Titus,” Antonia drawls tiredly.

“And no one else?” Mustang looks at me. “The girls won’t stop crying.”

“No one died,” Antonia says in annoyance. “Weak as they are, they will repair themselves. Despite what happened, there’s been no depletion of Golden stock.”

“The Golden stock…,” Mustang murmurs. “How can you be so cold?”

“Little girl,” Antonia sighs, “Gold is a cold metal.”

Mustang looks up at Antonia incredulously and then shakes her head. “Mars. A gruesome deity. You’re fit for this, aren’t you lot? Barbarity? Past centuries. Dark ages.”

I don’t have a mind to be lectured by an Aureate about morality.

“We would like you to leave the castle,” I tell her. “Do so with your men and you may have those we captured. We won’t turn them into slaves.”

Down the hill, Sevro stands beside the captives with our standard in hand, he’s tickling a disgruntled Pax with a horse hair.

Mustang jams a finger into my face.

“This is a school. You realize that, yes? No matter the rules your House decides to play by. Be ruthless all you gorywell like. But there are limits. There are slagging limits to what you can do in this school, in the game. The more brutal you are, the more foolish you look to the Proctors, to the adults who will know what you’ve done—what you’re capable of doing. You think they want monsters to lead the Society? Who would want a monster for an apprentice?”

I see a vision of Augustus watching my wife dangle, eyes dead as a pitviper’s. A monster would want a student in his own image.

“They want visionaries. Leaders of men. Not reapers of them. There are limits,” she continues.

I snap. “There are no goddamned limits.”

Mustang’s jaw tightens. She understands how this will play out. In the end, giving us back our horrible castle won’t cost her anything; trying to keep it would. She might even end up like one of the girls in the high tower. She never thought of that before. I can tell she wants to leave. It’s her sense of justice that is killing her. Somehow she thinks we should pay, that the Proctors should come down and interfere. Most of the kids think that about this game; hell, Cassius said it a hundred times as we scouted together. But the game isn’t like that, because life isn’t like that. Gods don’t come down in life to mete out justice. The powerful do it. That’s what they are teaching us, not only the pain in gaining power, but the desperation that comes from not having it, the desperation that comes when you are not a Gold.

“We will keep the Ceres slaves,” Mustang demands.

“No, they are ours,” I drawl. “And we will do with them what we like.”

She watches me for a long moment, thinking.

“Then we get Titus.”

“No.”

Mustang snaps. “We will keep Titus or there are no terms.”

“You will keep no one.”

She’s not used to being told no.

“I want assurances they are safe. I want Titus to pay.”

“It doesn’t matter a flying piss what you want. Here you get what you take. That’s part of the lesson plan.” I pull out my slingBlade and set its tip into the soil. “Titus is of House Mars. He is ours. So please, try and take him.”

“He’ll be brought to justice,” Roque says to Mustang to reassure her.

I turn to him, eyes blazing. “Shut up.”

He looks down, knowing he should not have spoken. It doesn’t matter. Mustang’s eyes don’t look to Antonia or Roque. They don’t look down the slope where Lea and Cipio have her warband on their knees in the glen, and Thistle sits on Pax’s back with Weed, taking their turn tickling him. Her eyes don’t look at the blade. They are only for me. I lean in.

“If Titus raped a little girl who happened to be a Red, how would you feel?”

She doesn’t know how to answer. The Law does. Nothing would happen. It isn’t rape unless she wears the sigil of an elder House like Augustus. Even then, the crime is against her master.

“Now look around,” I say quietly. “There are no Golds here. I’m a Red. You’re a Red. We are all Reds till one of us gets enough power. Then we get rights. Then we make our own law.” I lean back and raise my voice. “That is the point of all this. To make you terrified of a world where you do not rule. Security and justice aren’t given. They are made by the strong.”

“You should hope that is not true,” Mustang says quietly to me.

“Why?”

“Because there is a boy here like you.” Her face takes on a gloomy aspect, as though she regrets what she must say. “My Proctor calls him the Jackal. He is smarter and crueler and stronger than you, and he will win this game and make us his slaves if the rest of us go about acting like animals.” Her eyes implore me. “So please, hurry up and evolve.”

28
My Brother

I pretend the matches came from one of the Minervans when I light our first fire inside castle Mars. June is fetched from her makeshift prison, and soon she has prepared us a feast from the meat of goats and sheep and herbs fetched by my tribe. My tribe pretends it’s the first meal they’ve had in weeks. The others of the House are hungry enough to believe the lie. Minerva and her warband have long since slunk on home.

“What now?” I ask Roque as the others eat in the square. The keep is a place of squalor still, and the light of the fire does nothing but illuminate the filth. Cassius has gone to see Quinn, so I am alone for the moment with Roque.

Titus’s tribe sits in quiet groups. The girls will not speak to the boys because of what they’ve seen some of them do. All eat with their heads down. There’s shame there. Antonia’s people sit with mine and glare at Titus’s. Disgust fills their eyes. Betrayal too, even as they fill their bellies. Several scuffles have already escalated from minor words to thrown fists. I thought the victory might bring them together. But it did not. The division is worse than ever, only now I cannot define it and I think there is only one way to mend it.

Roque doesn’t have the answer I want to hear.

“The Proctors aren’t interfering, because they want to see how and if we handle justice, Darrow. It is the deeper trait that this situation probes. How do we manage Law?”

“Brilliant,” I say. “So what? We’re supposed to whip Titus? Kill him? That would be Law.”

“Would it? Or would it just be vengeance?”

“You’re the poet. You figure it out.” I kick a stone off the ramparts.

“He can’t stay tied up in the cellars. You know this. We will never move on from this torpor if he does, and it has to be you who decides what to do with him.”

“Not Cassius?” I ask. “I think he’s earned a say. After all, he did claim him.” I don’t want Cassius to share leadership, but I don’t want him to come out of the Institute without any prospects. I owe him.

“Claim him?” Roque coughs. “And how barbaric does that sound?”

“So Cassius should play no role?”

“I love him like a brother, but no.” Roque’s narrow face tenses as he sets a hand on my arm. “Cassius cannot lead this House. Not after what happened. Titus’s boys and girls might obey him, but they won’t respect him. They won’t think him stronger than them, even if he is. Darrow, they pissed on him. We are Golds. We do not forget.”

He’s right.

I pull my hair in frustration and glare at Roque as though he were being difficult.

“You don’t understand how much this means to Cassius. After Julian’s death… He has to succeed. He cannot be remembered solely for what happened. He can’t.”

Why do I care so much?

“Doesn’t matter a flying piss how much it means to him,” Roque echoes my words with a smile. His fingers are thin like hay on my bicep. “They’ll never fear him.”

Fear is necessary here. And Cassius knows it. Why else is he absent in victory? Antonia has not left my side. Pollux, the gate opener, hasn’t either. They linger several meters away to associate with my power. Sevro and Thistle watch them with sly grins.

“Is that why you’re here too, you scheming weasel?” I ask Roque. “Sharing the glory?”

He shrugs and gnaws on the leg of mutton Lea brings him.

“Slag that. I’m here for the food.”

I find Titus in the cellar. The Minervans tied him and beat him bloody after they saw the slave girls in his tower. That’s their justice. He smiles as I stand over him.

“How many of House Ceres did you kill in your raids?” I ask.

“Suck my balls.” He spits bloody phlegm. I dodge.

I resist kicking him there, barely. Already got Pax for the day. Titus has the gall to ask what has happened.

“I rule House Mars now.”

“Outsourced your dirty work to the Minervans, eh? Didn’t want to face me? Typical Golden coward.”

I am afraid of him. I don’t know why. Yet I bend on a knee and stare him in the eye.

“You are a pissing fool, Titus. You never evolved. Never got past the first test. You thought this whole thing is about violence and killing. Idiot. It’s about civilization, not war. To have an army, you must first have a civilization—you went straight to violence like they wanted us to. Why do you think they gave us of Mars nothing and the other Houses have so many resources? We’re meant to fight like mad, but we’re meant to burn out like you did. But I beat that test. Now I’m the hero. Not the usurper. And you’re just the ogre in the dungeon.”

“Oh, huzzah. Huzzah!” He tries clapping his bound hands. “I don’t give a piss.”

“How many did you kill?” I ask.

“Not enough.” He tilts his large head. His hair is greasy and dark with dirt, almost as though he’s tried to black out the gold. He seems to like the dirt. It’s under his fingernails, coats his burnished skin. “I tried to bash their heads in. Kill them before the medBots came. But they were always so fast.”

“Why did you want to kill them? I don’t understand what the point is. They are your own people.”

He smirks at this. “You could have changed things, you bastard.” His large eyes are calmer, sadder than I remember. He does not like himself, I realize. Something about him is too mournful. The pride I thought he had is not pride; it is just scorn. “You say I’m cruel, but you had matches and iodine. Don’t think I didn’t know even before I smelled you. We starved, and you used what you found to become leader. So do not lecture me on morality, you backstabbing piss-sucker.”

“Then why didn’t you do something about it?”

“Pollux and Vixus were frightened of you. So the rest were too. And they thought Goblin would kill them in their sleep. What could I do if I was the only one who wasn’t scared?”

“Why aren’t you?”

He laughs hard. “You’re just a boy with a slingBlade. First I thought you were hard. Thought we saw things similarly.” He licks a bloody lip. “Thought you were like me, only worse because of that coldness in your eyes. But you’re not cold. You care about these pisspricks.”

My eyebrows pinch together. “How’s that?”

“Simple. You made friends. Roque. Cassius. Lea. Quinn.”

“So did you. Pollux, Cassandra, Vixus.”

Titus’s face contorts horribly. “Friends?” he spits. “Friends with them? Those Goldbrows? They are monsters, soulless bastards. Nothing but a bunch of cannibals, all of them. They did the same as I did, but… pfah.”

“I still don’t understand why you did what you did to the slaves,” I say. “Rape, Titus. Rape.”

His face is quiet and cruel. “They did it first.”

“Who?”

But he’s not listening. Suddenly he’s telling me about how they took “her” and raped “her” in front of him. Then the slaggers came back a week later to do it some more. So he killed them; bashed their heads in. “I killed the bloodydamn monsters. Now their daughters bloodywell get what she got.”

It’s like I’ve been punched in the face.

Oh hell.

A chill spreads through me.

Bloodydamn.

I stumble back.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Titus asks. If I were a Gold, I might have not noticed, might’ve just been befuddled by the odd word. I’m no Gold. “Darrow?”

I pull my way into the hall. I move in a haze. It all makes sense. The hate. The disgust. The vengeance. Cannibals eat their own. He called them cannibals. Pollux, Cassandra, Vixus—who are their own? Their own. Golden. Bloodydamn. Not gory. Titus said bloodydamn. No Gold says that. Ever. And he called it a slingBlade, not a reaper’s scythe.

Oh hell.

Titus is a Red.

29
Unity

Titus is what Dancer did not want me to become. He is like Harmony. He is a creature of vengeance. A rebellion with Titus at the helm would fail in weeks. Worse, if Titus continues this way, continues unstably, he puts me at risk. Dancer lied, or else he did not know that there are other Reds who’ve been carved, other Reds who have donned the mask of the Golds. How many more are there? How many has Ares planted here, in the Society? In the Institute? It doesn’t matter if it is a thousand or just one. Titus’s instability puts every Red ever carved into a Gold at risk. He puts Eo’s dream at risk. And that is something I cannot abide. Eo did not die so that Titus can kill a few kids.

I sob in the armory as I resolve what must be done.

More blood will stain these hands, because Titus is a mad dog and must be put down.

In the morning, I pull him into the square in front of the House. They clear away the remnants of the night’s feast. I even have the slaves there to watch. A few Proctors flicker high above. There is no medBot floating beside them, which must stand as their silent consent.

I push Titus down on the ground in front of his former tribe. They watch quietly, mist hanging in the air above them, nervous feet scraping the cold cobblestones of the courtyard. A chill seeps into my hands through the durosteel of my slingBlade.

“For crimes of rape, mutilation, and attempted murder of fellow House members, I sentence Titus au Ladros to death.” I list the reasons. “Does anyone contest my right to do so?” First, I glance to the Proctors above. Not one makes a sound.

I stare at cruel Vixus. His bruise is not yet gone. My eyes go to Cassandra next. I even look at craggy Pollux, the one who saved Cassius and opened the gates for us. He stands by Roque. How loyalties shift here.

How my own shift. I will make a Red die because he killed Golds. He dug the earth like me. He has a soul like mine. In death, it will go to the vale, but in life he was stupid and selfish with his grief. He should have been better than this. Reds are better than him, aren’t we?

Titus’s tribe stays silent; their guilt is bound up with their leader. When he goes, it’ll go. That is what I tell myself. Everything will be well.

“I contest the sentence,” Titus says. “And issue a challenge to you, turdlicker.”

“I accept, goodman.” I bow curtly.

“Then a duel per custom of the Order of the Sword,” Roque announces.

“I choose then,” Titus says, eying my slingblade. “Straight blades. Nothing curved.”

“As you have it,” I say, but as I step forward, I feel a hand at my elbow and feel my friend come close behind.

“Darrow, he is mine,” Cassius whispers coldly. “Remember?” I make no sign of acknowledgment. “Please, Darrow. Let me honor House Bellona.”

I look to Roque; he shakes his head. As does Quinn, who stands behind Cassius. But I am leader here. And I did promise my friend, who now recognizes my ascendance. He requests instead of demands, and so I make a show of considering and then accepting his request. I stand aside as Cassius steps forward with a straight blade held in his fencer’s grip. It is an ugly weapon, but he’s sharpened it on stones.

“Pisser,” Titus snickers. “Wonderful. I’ll be happy to drench your corpse with piss again when we’re through.”

Titus is meant for brawls. Meant for muddy battlefields and civil wars. I wonder if he knows how easily he will die today.

Roque draws a circle in ash around the two combatants. Clown and Screwface walk out with arms full of weapons. Titus picks a long broadsword he took from a Ceres soldier five days before. The metal scrapes over stone. Echoes around the courtyard. He swings it once, twice to test the metal. Cassius does not move.

“Pissing your pants already?” Titus asks. “No fretting, I’ll be quick about it.”

Roque performs the necessities and commences the fight.

Cassius is not quick about it.

The ugly blades sound brittle against each other. The clangs are harsh. The blades chip. They grind. But how silent they are when they find flesh.

The only sound is Titus’s gasp.

“You killed Julian,” Cassius says quietly. “Julian au Bellona of House Bellona.”

He pulls his blade free of Titus’s leg and slides it in somewhere else. He rips it out.

Titus laughs and swings feebly. It is pathetic at this point.

“You killed Julian.” A thrust accompanies the words, words he repeats until I no longer watch. “You killed Julian.” But Titus is long dead. Tears stream down Quinn’s face. Roque takes her and Lea away. My army is silent. Thistle spits on the cobbles and puts her arm over Pebble’s shoulders. Clown looks even more dejected than usual. Even the Proctors make no comment. It is Cassius’s rage that fills the courtyard, a cruel lament for a kind brother. He said he did it for justice, for the honor of his family and House. But this is revenge, and how hollow it seems.

I grow cold.

This was meant for me. Not for my poor brother, Titus—if that was ever really his name. He deserved better than this.

I’m going to cry. The anger and sadness well in my chest as I push through the army. Roque looks at me when I pass him. His face is like a corpse’s.

“That wasn’t justice,” he murmurs without looking me in the eyes.

I failed the test. He’s right. It wasn’t justice. Justice is dispassionate; it is fair. I am the leader. I passed the sentence. I should have done it. Instead, I gave license to vengeance and vendetta. The cancer will not be cut away; I made it worse.

“At least Cassius is feared again,” Roque mutters. “But that’s the only thing you got right.”

Poor Titus. I bury him in a grove near the river. I hope it speeds him on his way to the vale.

That night I do not sleep.

I don’t know if it was his wife or his sister or his mother they hurt. I do not know what mine he came from. His pain is my own. His pain broke him as mine broke me on the scaffold. But I was given a second chance. Where was his?

I hope his pain fades in death. I did not love him till he was dead; and he should be dead, but he is still my brother. So I pray he finds peace in the vale and that I will see him again one day and we’ll embrace as brothers as he forgives me for what I did to him, because I did it for a dream, for our people.

My name, three bars beside it now, floats nearer the Primus hand.

Cassius has risen too.

But there can be only one Primus.

Since I cannot sleep, I take the guard shift from Cassandra. Mist curls around the battlements, so we tie sheep around the walls. They will bleat if an enemy comes. I smell something strange, rich and smoky.

“Roast duck?” I turn and find Fitchner standing beside me. His hair is messy over his narrow brow and he wears no golden armor today, only a black tunic striped with gold. He hands me a piece of duck. The smell makes my stomach rumble.

“We should all be pissed at you,” I say.

His face is one of surprise. “Tots who say that usually mean to explain why they are not pissed.”

“You and the Proctors can see everything, yes?”

“Even when you wipe your ass.”

“And you didn’t stop Titus, because it’s all part of the curriculum.”

“The real question is why we did not stop you.”

“From killing him.”

“Yes, little one. He would have been valuable in the military, don’t you think? Perhaps not a Praetor with ships in the ink. But what a Legate he would have made, leading men in starShells through enemy gates as fire rained down against their pulseShields. Have you ever seen an Iron Rain? Where men are launched from orbit to take cities? He was meant for that.”

I do not answer.

Fitchner wipes grease from his lips with the black sleeve of his tunic.

“Life is the most effective school ever created. Once upon a time they made children bow their heads and read books. It would take ages to get anything across.” He taps his head. “But we have widgets and datapads now, and we Golds have the lower Colors to do our research. We need not study chemistry or physics. We have computers and others to do that. What we must study is humanity. In order to rule, ours must be the study of political, psychological, and behavioral science—how desperate human beings react to one another, how packs form, how armies function, how things fall apart and why. You could learn this nowhere else but here.”

“No, I understand the purpose,” I murmur. “I learn more when I make mistakes, so long as they don’t kill me.” How well I learned from trying to be a martyr.

“Good. You make plenty of them. You’re an impulsive little turd. But this is the place to fragup. To learn. This is life… but with medBots, second chances, artificial scenarios. You might have guessed that the first test, the Passage, was the measurement of necessity versus emotion. The second was tribal strife. Then there was a bit of justice. Now there will be more tests. More second chances, more lessons learned.”

“How many of us can die?” I ask suddenly.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“How many.”

“There is a limit set each year by the Board of Quality Control, but we’re well within the bounds despite what happened with the Jackal.” Fitchner smiles.

“The Jackal…,” I say. “Is that what happened the other night when the medBots blitzed south?”

“Did I say his name? Oops.” He grins. “I mean to say that the medBots are very effective. They heal nearly all wounds. But will they be so effective when Cassius finds out who really killed his brother?”

My stomach tightens.

“He already killed Julian’s murderer. Apparently you weren’t watching.”

“Of course. Of course. Mercury thinks you brilliant. Apollo thinks you’re the softest one here. He really does not like you, you know.”

“I could give a piss.”

“Oh, you should care much more than that. Apollo’s a peach.”

“Right. So what do you think? You are my Proctor.”

“I think you are an ancient soul.” He watches me and leans against the rampart. The night is misty beyond the castle. From its depths, a wolf howls. “I think you’re like that beast out there. Part of a pack but deeply sad, deeply alone. And I can’t puzzle out why, my dear boy. This is all so much fun! Enjoy it! Life doesn’t get better.”

“You’re the same,” I say. “Lonely. You’re all japes and snide comments, just like Sevro, but it’s just a mask. It’s because you don’t look like the others, isn’t it? Or are you poor? Somehow you’re an outsider.”

“My looks?” He barks a laugh. “What does that matter? Think I’m a Bronzie because I’m not an Adonis?” He leans forward, because he really does care about what I’m going to say.

“You are ugly and you eat like a pig, Fitchner, but you chew metabolizers when you could just go to a Carver and fix yourself to look like the others. They could take care of that paunch in a second.”

Fitchner’s jaw muscle flickers. Is it anger?

“Why should I have to visit a Carver?” he hisses suddenly. “I can kill an Obsidian with my bare hands. An Obsidian. I can outwit a Silver in parlance and negotiation. I can do math Greens only dream of. Why should I make myself look any different?”

“Because it is what holds you back.”

“Despite my low birth, I am of note. I am important.” His hatchet face dares me to contradict. “I am Gold. I am a king of man. I do not change to suit others.”

“If that’s true, why do you chew metabolizers?” He does not answer. “And why are you only a Proctor?”

“Becoming a Proctor is a position of prestige, boy,” Fitchner snaps. “The Drafters voted me to represent the House.”

“Yet you’re no Imperator. You lead no fleets. You’re not even a Praetor in command of a squadron. Nor are you any sort of Governor. How many men can do the things you say you can do?”

“Few,” he says very quietly, face all anger. “Very few.” He looks up. “What is the bounty you desire for capturing the Minervan standard?”

“Isn’t that Sevro’s deal?” I say, understanding the conversation is nearing its end.

“He has passed it to you.”

I ask for horses and weapons and matches. He agrees curtly and turns to leave before I can ask him one last question. I grab his arm as he starts to ascend. Something happens. My nerves fry. Like needles in acid through my hand and arm. I gasp. My lungs can’t function for a second.

“Gory hell,” I cough out, and fall to the ground. He wears pulseArmor. I can’t even see the generator. It’s like a pulseShield, but inlaid in the armor itself.

He waits without a smile.

“The Jackal,” I say. “You mentioned him. The Minervan girl mentioned him. Who is he?”

“He’s the ArchGovernor’s son, Darrow. And he makes Titus look like a blubbering child.”

Large horses graze in the fields the next morning. Wolves try to take down a small mare. A pale stallion rides up and kicks one of the wolves to death. I claim him. The others call him Quietus. It means “the final stroke.”

He reminds me of the Pegasus that saved Andromeda. The songs we sang in Lykos spoke of horses. I know Eo would have liked a chance to ride one.

I do not realize till days later that when they named my horse Quietus, they were mocking me for my part in Titus’s death.

30
House Diana

A month passes. In the wake of Titus’s death, House Mars becomes stronger. The strength comes not from the highDrafts but from the dregs, from my tribe and the midDrafts. I have outlawed the abuse of slaves. The Ceres slaves, though still skittish around Vixus and a few of the others, provide our food and fires; they are good for little else. Fifty goats and sheep have been gathered in the castle in case of a siege; so too has firewood been stockpiled. But we have no water. The pumps to the washroom shut off after the first day, and we have no buckets to store water inside in case of a siege. I doubt it was an accident.

We hammer shields into basins and use helmets to bring water from the river glen below our high castle. We cut down trees and carve them hollow to make troughs in which to store the water. Stones are pulled up and a well is dug, but we cannot dig far enough to get past the mud. Instead, we line the well with stone and timber and try to use it as a tank for water. It always leaks. So we have our troughs, and that is it. We cannot let ourselves be besieged.

The keep is cleaner.

After seeing what happened to Titus, I ask Cassius to teach me the blade. I’m an unreasonably fast study. I learn with a straight. I never use my slingBlade; it already is like part of my body. And the point is not to learn how to use the straight blade, which is much like the razors, but to learn how it will be used against me. I also do not want Cassius to learn how to fight the curved blade. If he ever finds out about Julian, the curve is my only hope.

I am not as proficient in Kravat. I can’t do the kicks. I learn how to break tracheas, though. And I learn how to properly use my hands. No more windmill punches. No more foolish defense. I am deadly and fast, but I do not like the discipline Kravat requires. I want to be an efficient fighter. That is all. Kravat seems intent on teaching me inner peace. That is a lost cause.

Yet now I hold my hands like Cassius, like Julian, in the air, elbows at eye level so I am always striking or blocking downward. Sometimes Cassius will mention Julian and I will feel the darkness rise. I think of the Proctors watching and laughing about this; I must look like an evil, manipulative thing.

I forget that Cassius, Roque, Sevro, and I are enemies. Red and Gold. I forget that one day I might have to kill them all. They call me brother, and I cannot but think of them in the same way.

The battle with House Minerva has broken down into a series of warband skirmishes, neither side gaining enough advantage over the other to ever score a decisive victory. Mustang will not risk the pitched battle that I want, nor can they really be goaded. They are not so easily tempted as my soldiers are to bouts of glory or violence.

The Minervans are desperate to capture me. Pax turns into a madman when he sees me. Mustang even tried offering Antonia, or so Antonia claims, a mutual defense compact, a dozen horses, six stunpikes, and seven slaves in exchange for me. I don’t know if she is lying when she tells me this.

“You would betray me in a heartbeat if it got you to Primus,” I tell her.

“Yes,” she says irritably, as I interrupt her fastidious nail maintenance. “But since you expect it, it shan’t really be a betrayal, darling.”

“Then why didn’t you accept the offer?”

“Oh, the dregs look up to you. It would be disastrous at this point. Maybe after you have failed at something, yes, maybe then when momentum is against you.”

“Or you’re waiting for a higher price.”

“Exactly, darling.”

Neither of us mentions Sevro. I know she’s still afraid he’ll cut her throat if she touches me. He follows me now, wearing his wolfskin. Sometimes he walks. Sometimes he rides a small black mare. He does not like armor. Wolves approach him at random, as though he were one of their own pack. They come to eat deer he kills because they’ve grown hungry as we lock away the goats and sheep. Pebble always leaves them food at the walls whenever we slaughter a beast. She watches them like a child as they come in fours and threes.

“I killed their pack leader,” Sevro says when I ask why the wolves follow him. He looks me up and down and flashes me an impish grin from beneath the wolf pelt. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t fit in your skin.”

I’ve given Sevro the dregs to command because I know they might be the only people he’ll ever like. At first he ignores them. Then slowly, I begin noticing that more unearthly howls fill the night than before. The others call them the Howlers, and after a few nights under Sevro’s tutelage, each wears a black wolfcloak. There are six: Sevro, Thistle, Screwface, Clown, Pebble, and Weed. When you look at them, it seems as though each of their passive faces stares out from the open, fanged maw of a wolf. I use them for quiet tasks. Without them, I’m not sure I would still be leader. My soldiers whisper slurs about me as I pass. The old wounds have not healed.

I need a victory, but Mustang will not meet in combat, and the thirty-meter walls of House Minerva are not as easy to pass as they were initially. In our warroom, Sevro paces back and forth and calls the game stupidly designed.

“They had to know we couldn’t gorywell get past each other’s walls. And no one is dumb enough to send out a force they can’t afford to lose. Especially not Mustang. Pax might. He’s an idiot, built like a god, but an idiot and he wants your balls. I hear you popped one of his.”

“Both.”

“Should just put Pebble or Goblin in a catapault and launch them over the wall,” Cassius suggests. “Course we’d have to find a catapault…”

I’m tired of this war with Mustang. Somewhere in the south or west, the Jackal is building his strength. Somewhere my enemy, the ArchGovernor’s son, is readying to destroy me.

“We are looking at this the wrong way,” I tell Sevro, Quinn, Roque, and Cassius. They’re alone with me in the warroom. An autumn breeze brings in the smell of dying leaves.

“Oh, do share your wisdom,” Cassius says with a laugh. He’s lying on several chairs, his head in Quinn’s lap. She plays with his hair. “We’re dying to hear.”

“This is a school that has existed for, what, more than three hundred years? So every permutation has been seen. Every problem we face has been designed to be overcome. Sevro, you say the fortresses cannot be taken? Well, the Proctors have to know that. So that means we have to change the paradigm. We need an alliance.”

“Against whom?” Sevro asks. “Hypothetically.”

“Against Minerva,” Roque answers.

“Stupid idea,” Sevro grunts, and cleans a knife and slides it into his black sleeve. “Their castle is tactically inconsequential. No value. None. The land we need is near the river.”

“Think we need Ceres’s ovens?” Quinn asks. “I could do with some bread.”

We all could. A diet of meat and berries has made us muscle and bones.

“If the game lasts till winter, yeah.” Sevro pops his knuckles. “But these fortresses don’t break. Stupid game. So we need their bread and their access to the water.”

“We have water,” Cassius reminds him.

Sevro sighs in frustration. “We have to leave the castle to get it, Sir Numbnuts. A real siege? We’d last five days without replenishing our water. Seven if we drank the animals’ blood before the salt jacks us up. We need Ceres’s fortress. Also, the harvest pricks can’t fight to save their lives, but they have something in there.”

“Harvest pricks? Hahaha,” Cassius crows.

“Stop talking, everyone,” I say. They don’t. To them this is fun. It is a game. They have no urgency, no desperate need. Every moment we waste is a moment the Jackal builds his strength. Something in the way Mustang and Fitchner talked about him scares me. Or is it the fact that he is the son of my enemy? I should want to kill him; instead, I want to run and hide at the thought of his name.

It’s a sign of my fading leadership that I have to stand up.

“Quiet!” I say, and finally they are.

“We’ve seen fires on the horizon. War consumes the South where the Jackal roams.”

Cassius chuckles at the idea of the Jackal. He thinks him a ghost I conjured up.

“Will you stop laughing at everything?” I snap at Cassius. “It’s not a gorydamn joke, unless you think your brother died for amusement.”

That shuts him up.

“Before we do anything else,” I stress, “we must eliminate House Minerva and Mustang.”

“Mustang. Mustang. Mustang. I think you just want to snake Mustang,” Sevro sneers. Quinn makes a sound of objection.

I snatch Sevro’s collar and lift him up into the air with one hand. He tries to dart away, but he’s not as fast as me, so he dangles from my grip, two feet off the ground.

“Not again,” I say, lowering him nearer my face.

“Registers, Reap.” His beady eyes are inches from my own. “Off limits.” I set him down and he straightens his collar. “So, it’s to the Greatwoods for this alliance, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s to be a merry quest!” Cassius declares, sitting up. “We’ll be a troop!”

“No. Just me and Goblin. You aren’t going,” I say.

“I’m bored, I think I’ll come with.”

“You’re staying,” I say. “I need you here.”

“Is that an order?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sevro says.

Cassius stares at me. “You giving me orders?” he says in a strange way. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I go where I want.”

“So you’ll leave control to Antonia while we both go risk our necks?” I ask.

Quinn’s hand tightens on his forearm. She thinks I don’t notice. Cassius looks back at her and smiles. “Of course, Reaper. Of course I’ll stay here. Just as you’ve suggested.”

Sevro and I make camp in the southern highlands within view of the Greatwoods. We do not light a fire. Our scouts and others roam these hills at night. I see two horses on a far hill, silhouetted against the setting sun behind the bubbleroof. The way the sun catches on the roof makes sunsets of purples and reds and pinks; it reminds me of the streets in Yorkton as seen from the sky. Then it is gone and Sevro and I sit in darkness.

Sevro thinks this is a stupid game.

“Then why do you play it?” I ask.

“How was I to know what it’d be like? Think I got a pamphlet? Did you get a slagging pamphlet?” he asks irritably. He’s picking his teeth with a bone. “Stupid.”

Yet he seemed to know on the shuttle what the Passage was. I tell him that.

“I didn’t.”

“And you seem to have every gory skill required for this school.”

“So? If your mother was good in bed, you suppose she’s a Pink? Everyone adapts.”

“Lovely,” I mutter.

He tells me to cut to the point of it.

“You snuck into the keep and stole our standard and buried it. Saving it. And then you managed to steal Minerva’s piece. Yet you don’t get a single bar of merit for Primus. Doesn’t strike you as odd?”

“No.”

“Be serious.”

“What should I say? I’ve never been liked.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t born pretty and tall like you and your buttboy, Cassius. I had to fight for what I want. That doesn’t make me likeable. Just makes me a nasty little Goblin.”

I tell him what I’ve heard. He was the last one drafted. Fitchner didn’t want him, but the Drafters insisted. Sevro watches me in the dark. He doesn’t speak.

“You were picked because you were the smallest boy. The weakest looking. Terrible scores and so small. They drafted you like they drafted all the other lowDrafts, because you’d be easy to kill in the Passage. A sacrificial lamb for someone they had plans for, big plans. You killed Priam, Sevro. That’s why they won’t let you be Primus. Am I on target?”

“You’re on target. I killed him like I’d kill a pretty dog. Quick. Easy.” He spits the bone onto the ground. “And you killed Julian. Am I on target?”

We never speak of the Passage again.

In the morning, we leave the highlands behind for the foothills. Trees intersperse with grass. We move at a gallop in case Minerva’s warbands are near. I see one in the distance as we reach the trees. They didn’t see us. Far to the south, the sky is smoke. Crows gather there where the Jackal roams.

I would like to say more to Sevro, ask about his life. But his gaze penetrates too deep. I don’t want him to ask about me, to see through me as easily as I saw through Titus. It is strange. This boy likes me. He insults me, but he likes me. Even stranger, I desperately want him to like me. Why? I think it is because I feel as though he is the only one, including Roque and Cassius, who understands life. He is ugly in a world where he should be beautiful, and because of his deficiencies, he was chosen to die. He, in many ways, is no better than a Red.

I want to tell him I’m a Red. Some part of me thinks he is too. And some other part of me thinks he’ll respect me more if he knows I am a Red. I was not born privileged. I am like him. But I guard my tongue; there’s no doubt the Proctors watch us.

Quietus does not like the woods. At first the shrubbery is so thick that we must cut our way forward with our swords. But soon the shrubbery thins and we enter the realm of godTrees. Little else can exist here. The colossuses block the light, their roots stretching up like tentacles to sap the energy from the soil as they grow tall as buildings. I am in a city again, one where animals bustle and tree trunks instead of metal and concrete obstruct my view. Then, as we venture deeper into the woods, I’m reminded of my mine—dark and cramped beneath the boughs, as though there is no sky or sun.

Autumn leaves the size of my chest crinkle underfoot. I know we are being watched. Sevro does not like this. He wants to slink away to find the eyes at our backs.

“That would defeat the purpose,” I tell him.

“That would defeat the purpose,” he mocks.

We break for a lunch of pillaged olives and goat meat. The eyes in the trees think I’m too stupid to shift my paradigm, as though I would never suppose they’d hide above me instead of on the ground. Yet I don’t look up. No need to frighten the idiots or let them know I know their game; I’ll have to conquer them soon, if I still am the leader of my House. I wonder if they have ropes to traverse the trees. Or are the limbs wide enough?

Sevro still itches to pull out his knives and scale one of the trees. I shouldn’t have brought him. He’s not meant for diplomacy.

At last someone chooses to speak at me.

“Hello, Mars,” one says. Other voices echo it to my right. Stupid children. Should have saved their tricks for the night. It would be miserable in these woods in the dark, voices coming from all around. Something startles the horses. The goddess Diana’s animals are the bear, the boar, and the deer. We brought spears for the first two. There are supposed to be huge bloodbacks in these woods—monstrous bears made by Carvers because, most likely, the Carvers grew bored of making deerlings. We hear the bloodbacks roaring in the deeper parts of the wood. I settle Quietus.

“My name is Darrow, leader of House Mars. I’m here to meet with your Primus, if you have one. If you don’t, your leader will suffice. And if you don’t have one of those either, take me to whoever has the biggest balls.”

Silence.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Sevro calls out.

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he just shrugs. The silence is silly. It is to make me think they aren’t taking orders from me. They do things on their own schedule. What big boys and girls they are. Then two tall girls come from behind a distant tree. They wear fatigues the color of the woods. Bows hang from their backs. Knives in their boots. I think one has a knife in her coiled hair. They’ve used the berries of the woods to paint the hunting moon on their faces. Animal pelts dangle from their belts.

I do not look like war. I have washed my hair till it shines. My face is clean, wounds covered, the tears in my black fatigues stitched. I even washed out the sweat stains with sand and animal fat. I look, as Quinn and Lea both confirmed, devilishly handsome. I do not want House Diana intimidated. That’s why I let Sevro come. He looks ridiculous and childish, so long as his knives are kept away.

These two girls smirk at Sevro and can’t help but soften their eyes when they see me. More come down. They take most of our weapons—those they can find. And they throw furs over our faces so we cannot know the way to their fortress. I count the steps. Sevro counts too. The furs stink of rot. I hear woodpeckers and I remember Fitchner’s prank. We must be close, so I stumble and fall to the ground. No shrubbery. We’re spun around again, then led away from the woodpeckers. At first I’m worried that these hunters are smarter than I gave them credit for. Then I realize they are not. Woodpeckers again.

“Hey, Tamara, we got him down here!”

“Don’t bring them up, you chowderheads!” a girl shouts. “We’re not letting them have a free scouting party. How many times do I… Just wait. I’ll come down.”

They walk me somewhere and shove me against a tree.

A boy speaks over my shoulder. His voice is slow and languid, like a drifting knife blade. “I say we peel their balls off.”

“Shut up, Tactus. Just make them slaves, Tamara. There isn’t diplomacy here.”

“Look at his blade. Fragging reaper scythe.”

“Ah, so that’s him,” someone says.

“I claim his blade when we decide spoils. I’d also like his scalp, if no one else has intentions on it.” Tactus sounds like a very unpleasant boy.

“Shut up. All of you,” a girl snaps. “Tactus, put that knife away.”

They take the fur from my head. I stand with Sevro in a small grove of trees. I see no castle but I can hear the woodpeckers. I look around and receive a sharp strike to the head from a lean, wiry youth with bored eyes and bronze hair spiked up with sap and red berry juice. His skin is dark like oak honey and his high cheekbones and deepset eyes give him a look of permanent derision.

“So, you’re who they call the Reaper,” Tactus drawls. He swings my blade experimentally. “Well, you just look too pretty to be much damage at all.”

“Is he flirting with me?” I ask the Tamara girl.

“Tactus, go away! Thank you, but now go away,” says the thin, hawkish girl. Her hair is shorter than mine. Three large boys flank her. The way they glare at Tactus confirms my judgment of his character.

“Reaper, why are you with a pygmy?” Tactus asks, gesturing to Sevro. “Does he shine your shoes? Pick things out of your hair?” He chuckles to the other boys. “Maybe a butler?”

“Go away, Tactus!” Tamara snarls.

“Of course,” Tactus bows. “I shall go play with the other children, Mother.” He tosses the blade on the ground and winks at me like we alone know the joke that’s about to be played.

“Sorry about that,” Tamara says. “He’s not quite polite.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

“I am Tamara of… I almost said my real family,” she laughs. “Of Diana.”

“And they are?” I ask about the boys.

“My bodyguard. And you are…” She holds up a finger. “Let me guess. Let me guess. Reaper. Oh, we’ve heard of you. House Minerva doesn’t like you at all.”

Sevro snorts at my infamy.

“And he is?” she asks with raised eyebrows.

“My bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard? But he is so very short!”

“And you look like—” Sevro growls.

“So are wolves,” I reply, interrupting Sevro mid-curse.

“We’re more afraid of Jackals here than wolves.”

Maybe Cassius should have come along, just to know I’m not making the bastard up. I ask her about the Jackal, but she ignores my question.

“Help me out here,” Tamara says cordially. “If someone were to say that Reaper of the butcher House would come to my glade and ask for diplomacy, I would think it a Proctor’s joke. So, what do you really want?”

“House Minerva off my back.”

“So you can come here and fight us instead?” one of her bodyguards growls.

I turn to Tamara with a reasonable smile and tell her the truth. “I want Minerva off my back so I can come here and beat you, sure.” And then win the stupid game and destroy your civilization, please.

They laugh.

“Well, you’re honest. But not too bright, so it seems. Fitting. Let me tell you something, Reaper. Our Proctor says your House has not won in years. Why? Because you butchers are like a wildfire. In the early stages of the game, you burn everything you touch. You destroy. You consume. You ruin Houses because you can’t sustain yourselves. But then you starve because there is nothing more to burn. The sieges. The winter. The advance in technology. It kills your bloodlust, your famous rage. So tell me, why would I shake hands with a wildfire when I can just sit back and watch it run out of things to consume?”

I nod and dangle the bait.

“Fire can be useful.”

“Explain.”

“We may starve while you watch, but will you watch as a slave of some other House? Or will you watch from your strong fortress, your armies twice as large and ready to sweep up the ashes?”

“Not enough.”

“I will personally promise that House Mars will brook no aggression toward House Diana so long as our agreement is not violated. If you help me take Minerva, I will help you take Ceres.”

“House Ceres…,” she says, looking over to her bodyguards.

“Don’t be greedy,” I say. “If you go after Ceres on your own, both Mars and Minerva will set upon you.”

“Yes. Yes.” She waves an annoyed hand. “Ceres is near?”

“Very. And they have bread.” I look at the pelts her men wear. “Which I imagine would be a nice change from all that meat.”

Her weight shifts on her toes and I know I have her. Always negotiate with food. I make a note.

Tamara clears her throat. “So you were saying I could make my army twice as large?”

31
The Fall of Mustang

I ride dressed for war. All in black. Hair wild and bound by goatgut. Forearms covered with durosteel vambraces looted in battle. My durosteel cuirass is black and light; it will deflect any edge less than an ion blade or a razor. My boots are muddy. Streaks of black and red go across my face. SlingBlade on my back. Knives everywhere. Nine red crossbones and ten wolves cover Quietus’s flank. Lea painted them. Each bone is an incapacitated opponent, who are often healed by medBots and then thrown back into the fray. Each wolf a slave. Cassius rides at my side. He shimmers. The durosteel he received as a bounty is polished as bright as his glimmering sword and his hair, which bounces like coiled golden springs about his regal head. It’s as though he’s never been stood around and pissed on.

“Well, I do believe I am the lightning,” Cassius declares. “And you, my brooding friend, are the thunder.”

“Then what am I?” Roque asks, kicking his horse up beside us. Mud flies. “The wind?”

“You’re full enough of it,” I snort. “The hot sort.”

The House rides behind us. All of it except Quinn and June, who stay behind as our castle’s garrison. It is a gamble. We ride slowly so that Minerva knows we are coming. What they do not know is that I was there in the night just hours before and that Sevro is there now. Mud still sticks underneath my fingernails.

Minerva’s scouts dart across their rocky hilltops. They make a show of mocking us, but really they count our number to better know our strategy. Yet they seem confused when we ride into their country of high grass and olive trees. So confused that they withdraw their scouts behind their walls. We’ve never come in full force like this. The Howlers, our scouts, ride in full view on their black horses, black cloaks fluttering like crow wings. Our highDraft killers move as the vanguard of the main body—cruel Vixus, craggy Pollux, spiteful Cassandra, many of Titus’s band. The slaves jog about their owners, those who captured them.

I ride forward with Cassius and Antonia flanking me. She carries the standard today. Only a few archers man the walls, so I tell Cassius to make sure we are not ambushed from the flanks in case any of Minerva are about. He gallops away.

Minerva’s fortress is ringed by a hundred meters of barren earth made mud from the torrential rains of the last week. It is the killing field. Step into the ring and the archers will try and kill your horse. If you still do not retreat, they will try to kill you. Nearly twenty horses of both Houses litter the field. Cassius led a bloody assault on a Minervan warband up to the very gates of the castle itself just two days before.

Beyond the killing field is grass. Oceans of grass so high in some places that Sevro could stand tall and still not be seen. We stand at the edge of the mud ring amidst a meadow of autumn wildflowers. The ground squishes underfoot and Quietus whinnies beneath me.

“Pax!” I then shout. “Pax.”

I hurl the name against the walls until their main gate opens ponderously, as ponderously as it once opened that night when Cassius and I snuck inside. Mustang rides out. She trots slowly through the mud and pulls short of us. Her eyes take in everything.

“Is it to be a duel?” she asks with a grin. “Pax of Wise and Noble Minerva versus the Reaper of the Bloody Butcher House?”

“You make it sound so exciting,” Antonia yawns. She’s not got a spot of dirt on her.

Mustang ignores her.

“And you’re sure you’ve no one hiding in that grass waiting to ambush us when we come out to support our champion?” Mustang asks me. “Should we burn it and find out?”

“We’ve brought everyone,” Antonia says. “You know our numbers.”

“Yes. I can count. Thank you.” Mustang doesn’t look at her. Just at me. She seems worried; her voice lowers. “Pax will hurt you.”

“Pax, how are your balls?” I shout over her head. She winces as a drum beats suddenly from inside the fortress. Except it’s not a drum. Pax comes out of the gate. His war axe thumps his shield. Mustang shouts him back and he obeys like a dog, but the beating of the axe on the shield does not cease. We agree that the stakes should be all the remaining slaves between the two of us. A hefty bounty.

“I thought Handsome was the duelist?” Mustang says, then shrugs. Her eyes keep going to the grass. “Where is that mad fellow? Your shadow—the one who leads that wolfpack? Is he hiding in the grass? I don’t want him popping up behind me again.”

I shout for Sevro. A hand rises amongst the Howlers. Mud covers the faces that peer out from beneath the black wolfcloaks. Mustang counts. All five Howlers accounted for. In fact, all our forces save one, Quinn, are accounted for. Still Mustang isn’t satisfied. We are to remove our army six hundred meters from the edge of the mud ring. She will burn away all the grass within one hundred meters of where we now stand. When the grass is done burning, the scorched earth will be the duel field. Ten men of her choosing will join ten of my choosing in creating a circle in which to fight. The rest of hers will stay inside the city, and mine will stay six hundred meters removed.

“Don’t trust me?” I ask. “I don’t have men in the grass.”

“Good. Then no one will burn.”

No one burns. When the fire dwindles and the ground is all ash and smoke and mud within the killing field, I leave my army. Ten of mine accompany me. Pax thumps his war axe on a shield emblazoned with a woman’s head, her hair all of snakes. Medusa. I’ve never fought a man with a shield before. His armor is tight and covers everything but his joints. I heft a stunpike in the hand I’ve painted red and my slingBlade in the hand I’ve painted black.

My heart rattles as the circle forms around us. Cassius motions me over. Even in the muted light, he glows with color. He shares an ironic smile.

“Never stop moving. It’s like Kravat, this.” He eyes Pax. “And you’re faster than this gory bastard. Right?” I get a wink. He thumps me on the shoulder. “Right, brother?”

“Damn right.” I return his wink.

“Thunder and lightning, brother. Thunder and lightning!”

Pax is built like an Obsidian. He’s over seven feet tall, easily, and he moves like a bloodydamn panther. In this .37grav, he could throw me thirty meters or more. I wonder how high he can jump. I jump to stretch my legs. Nearly three meters. I can easily clear his head. The ground still smokes.

“Jump. Jump, little grasshopper,” he grumbles. “It’ll be the last time you use your legs.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I said it’ll be the last time you use your legs.”

“Odd,” I murmur.

He blinks at me and frowns. “What’s… odd?”

“You sound like a girl. Did something happen to your balls?”

“You little…”

Mustang trots up with their standard and says something about girls never challenging each other to stupid duels. “The duel is to—”

“Yielding,” Pax says impatiently.

“To the death,” I correct. Really it doesn’t matter. I’m just screwing with them at this point. All I have to do is give the signal.

“To yielding,” Mustang confirms. She finishes necessaries and the duel begins. Almost. A series of pops in the sky above signal sonic booms as the Proctors come join us from Olympus. They spin down from their high-floating mountain, coming from several different towers. Each wears his or her sign today, great headpieces of glittering gold. Their armor is a spectacle. They do not need it, but they love to dress up. Today they’ve brought a table with them. It floats on its own gravLift, supporting huge flagons of wine and trays of food as they set to having a dinner party.

“I hope we’re sufficient entertainment,” I cry up. “Mind dropping some wine? It’s been a while!”

“Good luck against the titan, little mortal!” Mercury cries down. His baby face laughs jovially and he showily brings a flagon of wine to his lips. Some of it tumbles the quarter mile from the sky to fall on my armor. It drips down like blood.

“I suppose we ought to give them a show,” Pax booms.

Pax and I share a real grin. It’s a compliment, of sorts, that they would all come to watch. Then Neptune, her trident headdress wobbling as she swallows a quail egg, shouts for us to get on with it, and Pax’s axe sweeps at my legs like an evil broom. I know he wants me to jump, because he’s about to charge forward with his shield to swat me from the air like a fly. So I step back, then spring forward as his arm finishes its stroke. He’s moving too, but upward in anticipation, so I shoot right past his right arm and jam the stunpike into his armpit with all of my strength. It snaps in half. But he doesn’t fall even as electricity courses through him. Instead, he backhands me so hard that I fly through the circle and into the mud. Broken molar. Mouthful of mud and blood. Whiplash. I’m already rolling.

I stumble to my feet with my slingBlade. Mud covers me. I glance at the walls. Their army rings the parapet—couldn’t help but watch the champions fight. This is the point. I could give the signal. The gates are open in case they have to send aid. Our nearest horseman is six hundred meters away, much too far. I planned for that. Yet I do not signal. I want my own victory today, even if it’s a selfish one. My army has to know why I lead.

I come back into the circle. I have nothing clever to say. He’s stronger. I’m faster. That’s all we’ve learned about one another. This is not like Cassius’s fight. There is no pretty form. Only brutality. He bashes me with his shield. I stay close so he can’t swing his axe. The shield is ruining my shoulder. Every strike shoots agony into my molar. He lunges with it again and I jump, pull on the shield with my left hand and launch myself over him. A knife flickers from my wrist and I stab it at his eyes as I pass. I miss and scrape his helmet’s visor.

Putting a little distance between us, I reach for a knife and try a familiar trick. He bats the flying blade away contemptuously with his shield. But when he lowers it to look at me, I’m in the air, landing on his shield with all my weight. The suddenness of it pulls the shield down just a hair. I slam mud into his helmet with my off hand.

He’s blind. One hand holds the axe. One holds the shield. Neither can wipe his visor clean. It’d be a simple matter if he could just do that. But he can’t. I hit him a dozen times on his wrist till he drops his axe. Then I take the monstrous thing and hit him on the helmet with it. The armor still doesn’t break. He almost knocks me unconscious with his shield. I swing the heavy axe again and finally Pax crumples. I fall to a knee, panting.

Then I howl.

They all howl.

Howls fill the lands of Minerva. Howls from my far-distant army. Howls from my ten highDraft killers who help make this dueling circle. Howls from the killing field. Mustang hears the dread sound behind her and she wheels her horse. Her face is one of terror. Howls from the laughing Proctors, except Minerva, Apollo, and Jupiter. Howls from the bellies of the dead horses in the middle of the killing field. The ones near her open gate.

“They’re in the mud!” Mustang shouts.

She’s almost right. But she thinks like a Gold. Someone screams as they see Sevro and his Howlers cutting their way out of the stitched-up bellies of the dead and bloated horses that litter the mud up to the gate. Like demons being born, they slither from swollen guts and parted stomachs. A half-score of House Diana’s best soldiers exit with them. Tactus and his spiked hair burst from the belly of a pale mare. He runs with Weed and Thistle and Clown. All within fifty meters of the ponderously slow gates.

The Minervan guards all stand upon the ramparts watching the duel. They cannot repel the sudden blitz of demon soldiers by closing their slow gates. They hardly manage to nock and draw their bows before Sevro, the Howlers, and our allies slip through the closing gate. On the other side of the city, the House Diana’s soldiers will be slowly scaling the walls with the ropes they use to climb their silly trees. Yes. The whistle sounds now from the other side. A guard there has seen them. No one will come help him. My army moves forward, even the fake Howlers we borrowed from Diana and dressed up to look like Sevro and his band.

We destroy House Minerva in minutes. High above, the Proctors still howl and laugh. I think they are drunk. It is over before Mustang can do anything except gallop away across the muddy field through the still-smoldering grass. A dozen horses set off in pursuit, Vixus and Cassandra amongst them. She’ll be caught before nightfall, and I’ve seen what Vixus does to prisoners and their ears, so I mount Quietus and set off in pursuit.

Mustang abandons her horse at the edge of a small wood to the south. We dismount and leave three men to guard the horses in case she doubles back. Cassandra plunges into the woods. Vixus follows me, purposefully stalking as though I might know where Mustang is hiding. I do not like this. I do not like being in the woods with Vixus and Cassandra. All it would take is a blade in the spine. Either would do it. Unlike Pollux, they still hate me, and my Howlers and Cassius are far away. Yet no knife comes.

I find Mustang by mistake. Two golden eyes peer out from a pit of mud. They meet mine. Vixus is with me. He swears something about how excited he is to break the gorydamn mare, see what she looks like with a bridle on. Standing there, leering into the brush, he looks bent and twisted and evil—like a withered tree after a fire. He has less bodyfat than anyone I’ve ever seen, so each of his veins and tendons ripple beneath his tight skin. His tongue flits over his perfect teeth. I know he’s goading me, so I lead him away from the mud pit.

Eo didn’t deserve to die a slave to the Society. And despite her Color, Mustang doesn’t deserve any sort of bridle.

32
Antonia

I passed this test. The interminable war with House Minerva is done. And I’ve also trapped House Diana.

House Diana had three choices before the battle. They could have betrayed me to Minerva and taken my House as slaves, but I had Cassius send pickets to intercept any rider. They could have accepted my proposal. Or they could have gone to our castle and tried to take it. I could care less if they chose that option; it was a trap. We left no water inside and could have besieged them easily.

Now they have the Minervan fortress and we are outside in the plains. They could honor their agreement. We would get the standard; they would get the city and all its inhabitants. But I know they’ll become greedy. And they do. The gates close and they think they’ve a strategic bastion. Good. That’s why I have Sevro inside with them.

Smoke plumes soon rise. He destroys the food stores as they enslave the Minervans and guard the walls from my army. Then he fouls the wells with feces and hides with his Howlers in the cellars.

House Diana is not used to this sort of warfare. They have never really left their woods behind. It is hardly an effort to wait them out. Three days in and they are apparently still surprised we do not leave. Instead, we camp north and south of the city with our horses and light bonfires all around so they cannot slip away in the night. They are thirsty. Their leader, Tamara, does not receive me. She is too embarrassed at being caught in her betrayal.

Eventually, on the fourth day, Tamara offers me ten Minervan slaves and all our enslaved soldiers if I allow her passage home. I send Lea to tell her to go slag herself. Lea giggles like a child when she returns. She flips her hair, grabs my arm, and leans in close to mock Tamara’s desperateness.

“Have decency!” she cries. “Are you not a man of your word?”

When they try to break out the fifth night, we capture every last one of them. Except Tamara. She fell from her horse and was trampled to death in the mud.

“Her saddle was cut through underneath.” Sevro shows me the cleanly severed strip of leather. “Tactus?”

“Probably.”

“His mother’s a Senator, Father’s a Praetor.” Sevro spits. “Met him when we were children. Beat a girl half to death when she wouldn’t kiss him on the cheek. Mad bastard.”

“Let it slide,” I say. “We can’t prove anything.” Tactus is our slave, as is all of Diana and Minerva. Even Pax. I sit with Cassius and Roque atop our horses as we watch our new slaves labor in stacking wood and hay throughout the Minervan fortress. They set a massive blaze and we three toast each other in victory.

“This will be your last bar of merit,” Cassius tells me. “That makes you Primus, brother.” He pats my shoulder, and I see only a twinge of jealousy in his eyes. “Couldn’t be a better pick.”

“Lord on high, I never thought I would see this side of our handsome friend,” Roque says. “Humility! Cassius, is that truly you?”

Cassius shrugs. “This game is but a year of our lives, maybe less. After that, we have our apprenticeships or academies. After that, we have our lives. I’m only glad that we three were in the same House—just rewards will be there eventually for all of us.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “Agreed.”

He’s still looking down, unable to meet our eyes till he finds his voice again.

“I… may have lost a brother here. That pain won’t fade. But I feel like I’ve gained two more.” He looks up fiercely. “And I mean that, lads. I gorywell mean that. We’ll have to do ourselves proud here. Beat some more Houses, win the whole damn thing; but my father will need officers for the ships in his armada… if you are interested, that is. The House Bellona always needs Praetors to make us stronger.”

He says that last part timidly, as though we’d have something better to do.

I grip his shoulder once more and nod even as Roque says something smartass about being a politician because he’d rather send people to their deaths than go to his own. The Sons of Ares would drool if I became a Praetor to House Bellona.

“And don’t worry, Roque, I’ll mention your poetry to Father,” Cassius laughs. “He’s always wanted a warrior bard.”

“Of course,” Roque embellishes. “Be sure to let dear Imperator Bellona know that I am a master with metaphor and a rogue with assonance.”

“Roque a rogue… oh God,” I laugh as Sevro rides up with Quinn and a girl on a type of horse I have not seen before. The girl wears a bag over her head. Quinn announces her as an emissary from House Pluto.

Her name is Lilath and they found her waiting near the edge of the woods. She wishes to speak with Cassius.

Lilath was once a moonfaced girl with cheeks that did smile but now don’t. They are drawn and newly burned, pocked and cruel. She’s seen hunger, and there’s a coldness to her that I don’t recognize. I’m frightened. I feel like Mickey when he looked at me. I was a cold, quiet thing he didn’t understand. So is she. It’s like looking at a fish from an underground river.

Lilath’s words come slow and linger in the air.

“I come from the Jackal.”

“Call him by his real name, if you will,” I suggest.

“I did not come to speak with you,” she says without a hint of emotion. “I came for Cassius.”

Her horse is small and lean. Its hooves nicked. Extra clothing makes her saddle fat. I see no weapons other than a crossbow. They are a mountain House—more clothing for colder climates, smaller horses for harder rides. Unless it is deception. I make her show me her ring. It is a mourning tree—the cypress of Pluto. Its roots leak into the ground. Two of her fingers are gone. Burns seal the stumps, so they have ion weapons. Her hair clatters when she moves. I don’t know why.

She looks me over quietly, as though judging me against her master.

Apparently I am lacking.

“Cassius au Bellona, my master desires the Reaper.” She goes on before either of us can say a word. We’re too surprised. “Alive. Dead. We don’t care. In return for him, you will receive fifty of these for your… army.”

She tosses him two ionBlades.

“You can tell your master he should come face me himself,” I say.

“I make no words with dead boys,” Lilath says to the air. “My master has put the mark on the Reaper. Before winter comes, he will be dead. By one hand or another.”

“You can go slag yourself,” Cassius replies.

She tosses Cassius a small pouch. “To help you make your decision.”

She does not speak again. Quinn raises her eyebrows and shrugs her confusion as she leads Lilath away.

I look at the small pouch Cassius holds in his hands. Paranoia overwhelms me. What is inside?

“Open it,” I say.

“Nah. She’s mad as a Violet, that one,” Cassius laughs. “Don’t need her to infect us.” Yet he tucks the pouch in his boot. I want to scream at him to open it, but I smile as though there is nothing to worry about.

“Something was wrong in her. Didn’t seem human,” I say casually.

“Looked like one of our starved wolves.” Cassius gives the ionBlade a swing. The air shrieks. “At least we got these two. Now I can teach you how to duel properly. These’ll go straight through duroArmor. Dangerous things, really.”

The Jackal knows about me. The thought makes me shiver. Roque’s words are worse.

“Did you notice how her hair clattered?” he asks. His face is white. “Her braids were laced with teeth.”

We must prepare to meet the Jackal’s army. That means consolidating my forces and eliminating lingering threats. I need the remainder of House Diana in the Greatwoods destroyed. And I need House Ceres. I send Cassius with the Howlers and a dozen horsemen to destroy the remainder of Diana. The rest of my army and slaves I take back to our castle to prepare for the Jackal. I’ve not yet devised a plan, but I’ll be ready for him if he rears his head.

“After sleeping in dead horses, our Howlers will probably stink them out of the Greatwoods!” Cassius laughs as he spurs his horse away from the main column. “I’ll sick Goblin on them and be back before you’re even in bed.”

Sevro does not want to go without me. He does not understand why Cassius needs his help to mop up the remainders of Diana. I tell him the truth.

“Cassius has a pouch in his boot, the one Lilath gave him. I need you to steal it.”

His eyes do not judge. Not even now. There are times when I wonder what I did to earn such loyalty, then others when I try not to press my luck by looking the gift horse in the mouth.

That night as Cassius lays siege to Diana in the Greatwoods, the rest of my army feasts behind our tall highland walls in Mars Castle. The keep is clean and the square merry. Even the slaves are given June’s thyme-roasted goat and venison drizzled with olive oil. I watch over it all. The slaves look down out of embarrassment as I pass, even Pax. The howling wolf on his forehead has crushed his pride. Tactus alone meets my eyes. His dark honey skin is like Quinn’s, but his eyes remind me of a pitviper’s.

He winks at me.

After my victory over Pax, my highDrafts seem to have finally fully embraced my leadership, even Antonia. It reminds me of how I was treated on the streets after Mickey carved me. I am the Gold here. I am the power. It’s the first time I’ve felt this way since sentencing Titus to death. Soon Fitchner will come down and give me the Primus hand from the stone and all will be well.

Roque, Quinn, Lea, and now Pollux eat with me. Even Vixus and Cassandra, who normally sit in commune with Antonia, have come to give their congratulations on the victory. They laugh and clap me on the shoulder. Cipio, Antonia’s plaything, is counting the many slaves. Antonia herself does not venture my way, but she does tilt her golden head in approval. Miracles do happen.

I am Primus. I have five golden bars. Soon Fitchner will come to bestow the honorifics. In the morning, House Ceres will fall. They have less than one-third our number. With their grain to feed my army and their fortress to use as a base of operations, I will have the power of four Houses. We will sweep away whatever is left in the North and then descend upon the South before the first snow even falls. Then I will face the Jackal.

Roque comes to stand beside me as we watch the feast.

“I’ve been thinking of kissing Lea,” he says suddenly to me. I see her laughing with several midDrafts near one of the fires. She’s cut her hair short, and she spares us a glance, coquettishly ducking her head when Roque holds her gaze. He blushes too and looks away.

“I thought you didn’t like her. She follows you about like a puppy,” I laugh.

“Well, yes. At first I she didn’t intrigue me because I thought she was attaching herself to me as one would to a… life raft to stop from sinking. But… she’s grown…”

I look over at him and laugh. I can’t stop laughing.

We look like blond wolves. We’re leaner than when the Institute began. Dirtier. Our hair is long. We have scars. Me more than most. I’m likely too dependent on red meat. One of my molars is split. But I laugh. I laugh till my molar can’t take it anymore. I’d forgotten that we are people, kids who have crushes.

“Well, don’t waste the first kiss,” I say. “That’s my only advice.”

I tell him to take her somewhere special. Take her somewhere here that means something to him, or them. I took Eo to my drill—Loran and Barlow made jokes about that. The thing was off and in a ventilated tunnel, so we didn’t have to wear frysuit lids, just had to watch for pitvipers. Still she sweated from excitement. Hair clinging to her face, to the nape of her neck. She gripped my wrist so hard, and only let go when she knew she had me. When I kissed her.

I grin and slap Roque on the butt for luck. Uncle Narol says it’s tradition. He used the flat of a slingBlade on me. I think he was lying.

I dream of Eo in the night. I do not often sleep without dreaming of her. The castle’s high tower bunk beds are empty. Roque, Lea, Cassius, Sevro, the Howlers, are gone. Except for Quinn, all my friends are off. I am Primus, yet I feel so alone. The fire crackles. Cold autumn wind comes in. It moans like a wind from the abandoned mine tunnels and makes me think of my wife.

Eo. I miss her warmth in the bed beside me. I miss her neck. I miss kissing her soft skin, smelling her hair, tasting her mouth as she whispered how she loved me.

Then I hear feet and she fades.

Lea bursts through the dormitory door. She talks frantically. I can barely understand her. I stand, towering over her, and put a hand on her shoulder to calm her. It’s impossible. Manic eyes look at me from behind her short-cut hair.

“Roque!” she wails. “Roque has fallen into a crevice. His legs are broken. I can’t reach him!”

I follow her so fast I don’t even bring my cloak or slingBlade. The castle is asleep except for the guards. We fly through the gate, forgetting the horses. I shout for one of the guards to come help me. I don’t watch to see if she does. Lea runs ahead, guiding me down into the glen and then up over the northern hills to the highland gulch where we made our first fires as a tribe. The mists are thick. The night is dark. And I realize how stupid I am.

It’s a trap.

I stop following Lea. I don’t tell her. I don’t know if they’ll come from behind me, so I dive to my belly and shuffle to a gulley so that I am lost in the mist. I put ferns over myself. I hear them now. The sound of swords. Of feet and stunpikes. Curses. How many are there? Lea calls my name frantically. She is not alone now. She’s led me to them. I hear crooked Vixus. I smell Cassandra’s flowers. She’s always rubbing them on her skin to cover her body odor.

Their voices call to each other in the mist. They know I discovered their trap. How can I get back to my army? I dare not move. How many are there? They look for me. If I run, would I make it? Or would I end up on the end of a sword? I have two knives in my boots. That is it. I pull them out.

“Oh, Reaper!” Antonia calls from the mist. She’s somewhere above me. “Fearless leader? Oh, Reaper. There’s no need to hide, darling. We’re not mad at you ordering us about like you’re our king. We’re not indignant enough to bury knives in your eyes. Not at all. Darling?”

They call taunts, playing on my vanity. I’ve never had much, but they can’t understand that. A boot steps near my head. Green eyes peer through the darkness. I think they see me. They don’t. NightOptics. Someone gave them nightOptics. I hear Vixus and Cassandra. Antonia grows frustrated.

“Reaper, if you do not come out to play, there shall be consequences.” She sighs. “What consequences, you ask? Why, I will cut little Lea’s throat to the bone.” I hear a yelp as Lea’s hair is seized. “Roque’s lover…”

I don’t come out. Goddammit. I don’t come out. My life is more than my own. It is Eo’s, my family’s. I cannot throw it away, not for my pride, not for Lea, not to avoid the pain of losing another friend. Do they have Roque too?

My jaw aches. I clench my teeth. My molar screams. Antonia won’t do it.

She can’t.

“Last chance, my darling. No?” There’s a meaty sound followed by a gurgle and a thump as a body crumples to the ground. “Pity.”

I loose a silent scream as I see the medBot whine through the night’s mist. For all the power in my hands, in my body, I’m powerless to stop this, them.

I do not move until the early morning, when I am sure they are gone. The medBots did not take Lea’s body away. The Proctors left it so I would know she died, so I could not hold on to hope that somehow she lived. The bastards. Her body is fragile in death. Like a little bird that has fallen from the nest. I build a cairn over her. The stones are high but they will not keep the wolves away.

I do not find Roque’s body, so I do not what has become of him. Is my friend dead?

I feel a ghost as I pick my way along the highlands, circling around the castle to avoid Antonia’s henchmen. I put myself in the path Cassius will take in returning from the Greatwoods, hiding beneath shrubs to stay from sight. It is midday when he returns at the head of a small column of horse and slaves. He kicks his horse forward to greet me as I come from the shrubs.

“Brother!” he calls. “I brought you a gift!” He hops off and gives me a hug before pulling out one of Diana’s tapestries and wrapping it about my shoulders. He pulls back from me. “You’re as pale as a ghost. What’s the matter?” He picks a leaf out of my hair. Maybe that’s when he sees the sadness in my eyes.

Sevro rides up behind him as I tell them what has happened.

“The bitch,” Cassius murmurs. Sevro is silent. “Poor Lea. Poor Lea. She was a sweetheart. Do you think Roque is dead?”

“I don’t know.” I say. “I just don’t know.”

“Gorydamn.” Cassius shakes his head.

“A Proctor must have given Antonia nightOptics,” Sevro speculates. “Or the Jackal bribed her. It fits.”

“Who cares about that?” Cassius cries, flinging out his arm. “Roque may be wounded or dead out there, man. Don’t you register?” He grips the back of my neck and brings my forehead to his. “We’ll find him, Darrow. We’ll find our brother.”

I nod, feeling a numbness spreading in my chest.

Antonia never returned to our castle. Neither did her henchmen, Vixus and Cassandra. They failed to kill me and must have fled. But to where?

Quinn flings her hands up in the air and shouts at us as we come through the gate.

“I didn’t know where the goryblazes anyone was! The slaves outnumbered us four to one till you got back. But it’s fine. It’s fine.” She grips Cassius’s hand when we tell her what’s happened. The tears well in her eyes for Lea, but she refuses to believe Roque is dead. She keeps shaking her head. “We can use the slaves to search for Roque. Probably wounded and hiding out there. That’s it. That has to be it.”

We do not find him. The entire army searches. Not a sign. We convene in our warroom around the long table.

“He’s probably dead at the bottom of a ditch,” Sevro says that night. I almost hit him. But he’s right.

“The Jackal did this,” I mutter.

“Tough shit,” he says.

“Come again?”

“Doesn’t matter if he did it, is what Sevro means. We can’t do anything against the Jackal now. Even if he tried to take your life, we’re not in a position to hurt him,” Quinn declares. “Let’s deal with our neighbors first.”

“Stupid,” Sevro mutters.

“What a surprise. It looks like Goblin disagrees,” Cassius snaps. “Speak up if you got something in your craw, pygmy.”

“Don’t talk down to me,” Sevro sneers.

Cassius chuckles. “Don’t piss on my foot because you only come to my knees.”

“I’m every bit your equal.” The look on Sevro’s face is such that I lean forward suddenly, frightened a knife will suddenly appear in Cassius’s eye.

“My equal? At what? Birth?” Cassius grins. “Oh, wait, I meant height, looks, intelligence, money? Shall I stop?”

Quinn kicks his chair hard with her foot.

“What the hell is your problem?” she snaps at him. “Never mind. Just shut the hell up.”

Sevro looks at the ground. I have the sudden urge to put a hand on his shoulder.

“What were you saying, Sevro?” Quinn asks.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“He said nothing,” Cassius chuckles.

“Cassius.” My voice alone shuts him up. “Sevro, please.”

Sevro sighs and looks up at me, cheeks flushed with anger. “Just thought we should not pick our butts here while the Jackal does whatever he wants.” He shrugs. “Send me south. And let me cause trouble.”

“Trouble?” Cassius asks. “What you going to do, kill the Jackal?”

“Yes.” Sevro looks quietly at Cassius. “I’ll put a dagger in his throat and then carve a hole till I see his spine.”

The tension is enough to make me uneasy.

“You can’t be serious,” Quinn says quietly.

“He’s serious.” Cassius’s forehead creases. “And he’s wrong. We’re not monsters. Not you and I, at least, Darrow. Bellona Praetors aren’t knives in the night. We have five hundred years of honor to guard.”

“Piss and lies.” Sevro dismisses him with a wave.

“It’s in the breeding.” Cassius elevates his nose ever so slightly.

Sevro’s mouth twists cruelly. “You’re a Pixie if you buy all that. Think your papa cut his way up to Imperator by being honorable?”

“Call it chivalry, Goblin,” Cassius sneers. “It wouldn’t be right trying to murder someone in cold blood, particularly not at a school.”

“I agree with Cassius,” I say, breaking my silence.

“Small wonder.” Sevro stands to leave very suddenly. I ask him where he is going.

“You obviously don’t need me. Have all the advice you can handle.”

“Sevro.”

“I’m gonna search the ditches. Again. Bet Bellona wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t get his precious knees dirty.” He bows mockingly to Cassius before leaving.

Quinn, Cassius, and I remain in the warroom until Cassius yawns something about catching a bit of REM before the dawn hits in six hours. Quinn and I are left alone. Her hair has been cut short and jagged, though the bangs hang just over her narrow eyes. She slouches boyishly in her chair and picks at her nails.

“What are you thinking on?” she asks me.

“Roque… and Lea.” I hear the gurgle in my mind. With it echoes all the sounds of death. Eo’s pop. Julian’s silence as he twitched in his own blood. I am the Reaper and death is my shadow.

“Is that all?” she asks.

“I think we should grab some sleep,” I reply.

She says nothing as she watches me leave.

33
Apologies

Cassius wakes me in the middle of the night.

“Sevro found Roque,” he says quietly. “He’s a mess. Come.”

“Where?”

“North. They can’t move him.”

We gallop away from the castle under the light of the two moons. An early winter snow fills the air with dancing flurries. Sucking sounds come from the mud as we head toward the north Metas. No sounds but the gurgling of the water and the wind in the trees. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I look over to Cassius. He has our two ionSwords, and suddenly a pit opens in my stomach as I realize what’s what. He doesn’t know where Roque is. But he knows something else.

He knows what I’ve done.

This is a trap I cannot ride away from. I guess there are those times in life. It’s like staring at the ground as you fall from a height. Seeing the end coming doesn’t mean you can dodge it, fix it, stop it.

We ride for twenty more minutes.

“It was no surprise,” Cassius says suddenly.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve known for over a year that Julian was meant to die.” The snow falls silently as we move together through the mud. The hot horse moves between my legs. Step by step through the mud. “He made a mess of his test. He was never the brightest, not in the way they wanted. Oh, he was kind and bright with emotions—he could sense sadness or anger a klick away. But empathy is a lowColor thing.”

I say nothing.

“There are feuds that do not change, Darrow. Cats and dogs. Ice and fire. Augustus and Bellona. My family and the ArchGovernor’s.”

Cassius’s eyes are fixed ahead even as his horse stumbles and his breath makes fog in the air.

“So despite what it portended, Julian was excited when he received the acceptance letter stamped with the ArchGovernor’s personal seal. Didn’t seem right to me or my other brothers. Never thought Julian would be the sort to make it in. I loved him, all my brothers and cousins did; but you met him. Oh, you’ve met him—he wasn’t the keenest of mind, but he wasn’t the dullest; he wouldn’t have been the bottom one percent. No need to cull him from the stock. But he had the name Bellona. A name which our enemy loathes. And so our enemy used beauracracy, used his title, his duly appointed powers, to murder a kind boy.

“To turn down an invitation to the Institute is an illegal act. And he was so delighted, and we—my mother and father and brothers and sisters and cousins and loved ones—were so hopeful for him. He trained so hard.” His voice takes a mocking tone. “But in the end, Julian was fed to the wolves. Or should I say wolf?”

He pulls his horse to a halt, eyes burning into me.

“How did you find out?” I ask, staring ahead over the dark water. Flakes of snow disappear into the black surface. The mountains are but shadowed mounds in the distance. The river gurgles. I do not dismount.

“That you did Augustus’s dirty work?” He laughs scornfully. “I trusted you, Darrow. So I did not need to see what the Jackal sent me. But when Sevro tried to steal it from me as I slept in in the Greatwoods, I knew something was the matter.” He notices my reaction. “What? You thought you consorted with dullards?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“Well, I watched it tonight.”

A holo.

With Roque and Lea, I had forgotten about the package. Better that I had. Better that I had trusted him and not sent Sevro to steal it. Maybe he would have discarded it then. Maybe things would be different.

“Watched what?” I ask.

“A holo that shows you killing Julian, brother.”

“The Jackal got a holo,” I snort. “His Proctor gave it to him then. Guess that means the game is rigged. Suppose it doesn’t matter to you that the Jackal is the ArchGovernor’s son and that he’s manipulating you into getting rid of me.”

He flinches.

“Didn’t know the Jackal was his son, eh? I reckon you’d recognize him if you saw him and that’s why he sent Lilath.”

“I wouldn’t recognize him. I’ve never met the bastard’s spawn. He kept them hidden from us before the Institute. And my family kept me from him after…” His voice fades as his eyes sink into a distant memory.

“We can beat him, together, Cassius. We needn’t be divided—”

“Because you killed my brother?” He spits. “There is no we, you feckless quim. Get off your gorydamn horse.”

I dismount and Cassius throws me one of the ionSwords. I stand facing my friend in the mud. No one to watch but the crows and the moons. And the Proctors. My slingBlade is on the saddle; it at least has a curve, but it’s useless against an ionBlade. Cassius is going to kill me.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I tell him. “I hope you know that.”

“You will rot in hell, you manipulative son of a bitch,” he cries. “You allowed me to call you brother!”

“So what would you have had me do? Should I have let Julian kill me in the Passage? Would you?”

That freezes him.

“It’s how you killed him.” He’s quiet for a moment. “We come as princes and this school is supposed to teach us to become beasts. But you came a beast.”

I laugh bitterly. “And what were you when you ripped apart Titus?”

“I was not like you!” Cassius shouts.

“I let you kill him, Cassius, so the House wouldn’t remember that a dozen boys took a good long piss on your face. So don’t treat me as though I’m some monster.”

“You are,” he sneers.

“Oh, shut your goddamned gob and let’s just cut to it. Hypocrite.”

The duel is not long. I have been practicing with him for months. He has played duels his entire life. The blades echo across the moving river. Snow falls. Mud sticks and sloshes. We pant. Breath billows. My arms rattle as the blades clang and scrape. I’m faster than him, more fluid. Almost get his thigh, but he knows the mathematics of this game. With a little flick of his wrists to move my sword sideways, he steps in and drives his ionBlade through my armor into my belly. It should cauterize instantly and destroy the nerves, leaving me damaged though alive, but he has the ion charge off, so I only feel a horrible tightness as alien metal slides into my body and warmth gushing out.

I forget to breathe. Then I gasp. My body shivers. Hugs the sword. I smell Cassius’s neck. He’s close. Close as when he used to cup my head and call me brother. His hair is oily.

Dignity leaves me and I begin to whimper like a dog.

Throbbing pain blossoms—begins like a pressure, a fullness of metal in my stomach, becomes an aching horror. I shudder for breaths, gulp at them. Can’t breathe. It’s like a black hole in my gut. I fall back moaning. There is pain. That is one thing. This is different. It is terror and fear. My body knows this is how life ends. Then the sword is gone and the misery begins. Cassius leaves me bleeding and sniveling in the mud. Everything that I am goes away and I am a slave to my body. I cry.

I become a child again. I curl around the wound. Oh God, it is horrible. I don’t understand the pain. It consumes me. I’m no man; I’m a child. Let me die faster. I sink in the cold, cold mud. I shiver and weep. I can’t help it. My body does things. It betrays me. The metal went through my guts.

My blood goes out. With it go Dancer’s hopes, my father’s sacrifice, Eo’s dream. I can hardly think of them. The mud is dark and cold. This hurts so much. Eo. I miss her. I miss home. What was her second gift? I never found out. Her sister never told me. Now I know pain. Nothing is worth this. Nothing. Let me be a slave again, let me see Eo, let me die. Just not this.